


Unity

by Kryptaria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Claustrophobia, Cognitive Dissonance, Cryostasis, Depersonalization Disorder, Dissociative Episodes, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Gaslighting, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Happy Ending, Hydra (Marvel), LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Misunderstandings, Neurological Disorders, Nightmares, No MCD, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-06
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-07-29 15:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 91,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7689625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve awakens to his worst nightmare —  a world united under HYDRA's fist. Saved from the ice by freedom fighters, Steve heads into battle once more, but he can't find his place in this new world. And the first time he comes face-to-face with the Avengers and their leader, the Winter Soldier, he realizes that not everything is what it seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this epic for years now, but it was the Stucky Big Bang (2016) that finally gave me the kick in the ass to finish it. Thank you to everyone who's encouraged me over the years and to all my readers. There are some days where your comments are all that get me out of bed, much less back to the keyboard to write.
> 
> Special thanks to my betas, in alphabetical order: Neverwhere, Sanura (Rionsanura), Scriptrixlatinae, Shinysherlock, Zephyrfox. (And if you were a beta and I left you off this list, I'm sorry! Please drop me a note and remind me. Life is hectic!)
> 
> ~~~

“Facial recognition is only sixty percent certain.”

“DNA?”

“We don’t have a comparison sample.”

“There’s nothing? I thought this guy was military.”

 _Army,_ Steve thought, though his brain felt like mush. The 107th, like his dad, right? No, that was Bucky in the 107th. Not Steve. Steve had his own unit, though... didn’t he? He dragged in a breath, and his throat spasmed around something. He tried to swallow, but his teeth met resistance.

“Captain — Shit, is he _awake?_ ”

All the voices started talking at once, until one loud, deep voice rose above the others: “I need an ID confirmation! And get the damn doctor in here!”

Steve’s heart lurched against his ribs. He lifted his hands — or tried to. Soft pressure circled his wrists, holding his arms down at his sides.

“He’s awake!”

Hands grabbed at his arms, pushing them down against the soft surface where he lay. A mattress, not a cot. Something nearby started chirping, loud and fast.

With a choked growl of effort, he pulled one of his hands free and shook off the people holding him. He clawed at his eyes, finding gauze and tape clinging to his skin. He tried to get his nails under the edges, but the stuff was stronger and stickier than the duct tape he’d occasionally used to hold pressure bandages in place. When he lifted his head, sharp spots of pain flared all over his scalp. He felt weight, like something dragging — ropes or wires attached to his head.

“Captain! Easy, Captain!” someone was shouting. He tried to answer, but the thing in his throat silenced all but his most violent coughs.

“Watch the lines — Doctor, get him under control!”

“Hold him!”

More hands grabbed him. They couldn’t stop him from ripping at the tape, but they pinned down his still-bound left arm. A strip of the tape came free, taking with it a layer of his skin and the gauze covering his eye. He shook his head as best he could and saw a haze of brilliant white, bright as the sun but cold. Artificial.

He nearly screamed when a masked face leaned down into his line of sight, white capped, white stretched across the face, something glassy and clear over the eyes. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. There was no sign of rank, no sign of national affiliation.

 _Shit_. Was it HYDRA? The Nazis? Who had him? They spoke English, but that didn’t mean anything. The world was full of spies. Everyone knew that.

With another choked grunt, he wrenched his left arm free, only to lose all strength as heat tingled up from his wrist. He tried to lift his head, but the weakness was spreading fast, like poison in his veins.

“Put him under,” a new voice ordered. “I can’t work like this.”

“Easy, Captain. You’re all right now,” the masked person said as Steve’s vision started going black around the edges.

 _No. It’s not all right,_ was Steve’s last thought before the darkness took hold.

 

~~~

 

Steve blinked sleep-crust from his eyes and stared up at the white ceiling, swallowing against the dryness in his mouth. His throat felt scraped raw, like he’d been breathing in smoke on the battlefield. He lifted his hand and rubbed at his clean-shaven face, ran his fingers through his too-short hair.

Frowning, he looked at his right hand. His bare wrist and forearm. He... He remembered being tied down, right? He looked left and saw that both hands were free, but he had an intravenous line stuck in the back of his left hand, with a square of cellophane tape covering him from wrist to knuckles, holding a thick loop of clear tubing in place.

A low-grade ache filled his body, but it was nothing serious. Nothing to warrant being in a hospital — though it was like no hospital he’d ever seen before. The intravenous tubing led to a machine rather than a bag of saline or medicine. A blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his left bicep, but it, too, was hooked up to another machine.

Where the hell was he? This had to be another of Howard’s labs with all these gadgets. And the knock on the door — that had to be Howard himself. Or maybe one of his too-pretty nurses.

“Yeah?” Steve called, though it came out as a croak that left him coughing too hard to try and sit up.

“Captain Rogers?” The voice was every bit as rough as Steve’s felt, low and gravelly. Not a pretty nurse _or_ Howard. “Here. Let me get you some water.”

Steve got his coughing under control and blinked a few times to clear his eyes. “Thanks —” He cut off with a startled flinch when the man turned back to him. The left side of his face was horribly burned, one ear missing, the skin around his eyes pulled taut and thick with glossy scarring. How the hell had he survived?

“Yeah, it’s not pretty,” the man said, his voice too harsh for Steve to tell if he was bitter or just resigned. “You want to sit up?”

Too stunned to speak, Steve nodded and tried to brace himself on one elbow. The burned man reached down, but instead of helping, he did something to the top of the bed, which whirred and began angling itself upward.

 _Howard,_ Steve thought, allowing the bed to do all the work. Of course Howard would come up with a way to mechanize a bed to help someone sit up. He didn’t even want to think of what else a Stark-modified bed could do.

The burned man handed over the cup and pulled a chair next to the bed, blocking Steve’s view of the machines. Steve took a cautious sip — water, icy cold and more delicious than anything he’d ever tasted. Swallowing hurt, but he was too dehydrated to care.

“I’m Agent Rumlow. The troops call me Crossbones,” the burned man said as Steve drank.

 _Crossbones?_ Grim battlefield humor at its finest. Steve let Agent Rumlow take the cup when it was empty. “What unit are you with?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Steve frowned, glancing at the room while his mind raced. No windows. An oddly low ceiling. Heavy hinges on the door. The air tasted cool and damp but strange. Unfamiliar. “Complicated?” he asked, looking back at Agent Rumlow. There was something ragged about him, and not from the scars. He felt less like a soldier and more like one of the Howling Commandos, rough and ready for whatever the enemy threw at them, and to hell with looking pretty at inspection.

Even before being made into a dancing monkey, Steve had never liked commanders who were more concerned with their soldiers’ looks than skill.

“I’m with a group called S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Rumlow explained.

“Shield?”

“Strategic Hazard Intervention, Espionage, and Logistics Directorate.” Rumlow gave Steve a twisted, gruesome smile. “We’re freedom fighters.”

“Freedom... Freedom from who?”

Rumlow took a deep, raspy breath and rose. “Let me go get my tablet, and I’ll show you.”

 

~~~

 

“What _is_ this?” Steve asked, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he flipped over the flat black... _thing_. Rumlow had called it a tablet, which didn’t help.

Rumlow gave a coughing sort of laugh and touched one corner of the tablet. “Here. It scans a fingerprint...”

The glossy side lit up from within, and Steve nearly dropped the tablet, remembering the way Schmidt had dissolved into ash when he’d touched the cube. “What — _Oh,_ ” he whispered as a grid of images appeared, all in bright colors and razor-sharp lines. The only ones he recognized were an envelope and music notes — but what were they for?

“It’s a computer. A, uh...” Rumlow faltered, swiping his finger across the screen. It sent the images flying off to the side, replacing them with a new grid, which he tapped. “I don’t know how to put it. It does everything. Plays music, sends and receives messages, plays videos.”

Steve shook his head, a ball of ice forming in his gut. This was so far beyond anything he’d seen in Howard’s lab, he almost felt like he was dreaming. “Videos?” he asked absently, not really caring. This tablet was _impossible_ , even by Howard’s standards of technology.

He remembered Peggy’s kiss. The fight with Schmidt and his henchmen. The way the cube had consumed Schmidt before burning a hole through the floor of the bomber. The crash.

How long had he been in the ice?

“Movies,” Rumlow said. When Steve looked up, Rumlow tapped the glass again, saying, “These days, it’s mostly propaganda or ‘approved’ pre-Unification programming.”

“Wait. What?” Steve touched Rumlow’s burned hand to stop him from poking at the glass. “Pre-Unification?”

Rumlow let go of the tablet and leaned back with a wet, gurgling sigh. “I was hoping the video would explain, but... Fourteen years ago, the United States surrendered to HYDRA.”

 _What?_ Horror choked Steve to silence. He stared at Rumlow, trying to imagine a world without America — a world in which HYDRA _won_ — but he couldn’t fathom it. Not after everything he’d sacrificed. All the battles. All the losses. _Bucky_.

Rumlow nodded, twisted face falling into sadness. “I know,” he said in a hoarse whisper. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, cup dangling from his fingers. “That’s why we need you, Captain. We can drive them out, but not without you.”

Steve closed his eyes, letting his head sink back into the thick pillows, struggling to breathe under the weight of all these expectations. Just yesterday — by Steve’s reckoning, anyway — he’d steered a plane into the arctic ice to save New York, after he’d failed to save Bucky from falling to his death.

And all of it was for nothing. Worse, he had to do it all over again — and this time, he wouldn’t even have the refuge of a safe America to come home to when the war was over.

He wanted to close his eyes and go back to sleep for another... How long had it been? At least fourteen years since America had surrendered. Probably a lot longer. The very thought was exhausting.

But he couldn’t give up now. He _wouldn’t_. He needed to find out what the hell had happened since he’d crashed into the ice. And if Rumlow was right — if HYDRA really had taken over — then Steve damn well needed to do something about it.

“Okay.” He opened his eyes and summoned up the fake stage-smile that had fooled audiences all over the country. “Then you’d better get me caught up.” He held up the tablet and met Rumlow’s eyes. “How does this thing work?”


	2. Chapter 2

“How good are you with guns?” Rumlow asked as he set a heavy rifle on the bench in front of Steve.

Steve ran a hand over the rifle’s body. It wasn’t metal but something else — plastic, he suspected, just like damn near everything else in this modern era. There were unfamiliar elements, but overall, he got the gist of the thing. Magazine, trigger, sights, a scope that was a smaller version of the one Bucky had used... “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” Rumlow bent to take a cardboard box out of the kit bag he’d carried into the stone-walled underground range. It had once been a mine shaft, but the freedom fighters had done an admirable job adapting it with benches, firing lanes, and sandbags at the far end. “Solid projectile ammunition. It should be pretty familiar to you, I guess.” He flipped open the box, revealing thirty rounds of ammo.

Steve nodded, picking up one of the cartridges. It was a little smaller than the rounds Bucky had used — closer to what the rest of the Commandos had carried in their rifles. Steve himself had only ever carried sidearms; his main weapon was his shield. He switched the cartridge for the rifle. It was lighter than he expected, even with his strength.

For the first time in days, Steve felt a grim smile tug at his lips. How many hours had he spent practicing with Bucky and the other Commandos?

“Yeah. Shouldn’t be a problem.” He hefted the rifle, resting his cheek on the stock to find the sweet spot where the scope’s optics would focus best. Rumlow reached out and flicked a switch on the scope, and a red dot appeared in mid-air. Startled, Steve lifted his head, but the dot wasn’t there. It was _inside_ the scope, like an optical illusion.

“Good. We don’t have a whole lot of time for you to play catch-up,” Rumlow said sincerely. He clapped a hand on Steve’s shoulder and asked, “Need any protective gear?”

The range had signs warning that hearing and eye protectors had to be used at all times, but Steve had gone through an entire war without anything like that. What was the point of practicing with gear you wouldn't have in the field?

“I’m good.” He glanced away from the scope and tried not to stare at Rumlow’s scarred face and missing ear. “Want to step back?”

Rumlow’s grin was a death’s-head rictus. “Go for it, Cap.” Another pat on the shoulder, and then he backed away. With a harsh laugh in his voice, he asked, “Can you find the —”

Steve didn’t wait for him to finish; his thumb fell naturally on the safety, which he flipped a heartbeat before he took aim and depressed the trigger.

At the far end of the lane, a good fifty yards away, the center of the target exploded into confetti under a rapid-fire rush of bullets. _Bucky would love this,_ Steve thought, and the pang of loss made him ease up on the trigger. He lowered the weapon, keeping it pointed downrange, and looked into Rumlow’s wide eyes.

“Have you fired an HK-121 before?”

Steve shook his head, looking at the weapon. “No... HK-121, huh?”

Rumlow nodded, leaning forward to press a button on the side wall of the firing lane. A mechanism overhead whirred to life, and the target slid towards them. “Yeah. Usually it takes a little more practice...” He shook his head, eyes fixed on the single hole in the target.

“I had all the practice I need. Besides...” Steve smiled sadly and dropped the magazine out so he could reload, just like Bucky had taught him. _Always reload when you have a chance, Cap. You never know what’s coming for you next_. “I learned from the best.”

 

~~~

 

“In a world torn apart by war, we foster peace,” the female voice said as the camera panned across the rubble of a destroyed city, zooming in on a single flower growing from a cracked slab of concrete. The image flickered, flashing to a crowd of people of all sorts of races and nationalities. “In a world filled with divisiveness, we offer understanding.” The people smiled, and the camera swung down to show their clasped hands. “In a world of lawlessness, we bring order.” The image changed to the word “Unity” over a seven-pointed star, and the narrator said, “Unity. Be one with the world. Be one with HYDRA.”

Steve let out a breath and set down the tablet, rolling his head back to crack his neck. It sounded... good. Too good, surely. Otherwise, why would Rumlow and the others be fighting them?

No, it had to be too good — a pretty veneer over a rotting core, like Hitler’s grand visions of Germany’s glorious future, never mentioning all the innocent people he ordered to be slaughtered.

He leaned forward again and tapped the tablet, which switched to holo-mode, projecting the blue-lit image of a bespectacled professor. A woman, in fact, something that had caught Steve by surprise at first. “Welcome to Fundamentals of Electricity, module two. Serial and Parallel Circuits,” she said. “This module is brought to you by the London Stark Expo. Advancing science in the shadow of history.”

Shaking his head, Steve picked up the old-fashioned pen and notebook that Rumlow had scavenged for him. He could take notes on the tablet — and had, at first — but he preferred the feel of ink flowing over paper. He had too much catching up to do as it was; there was no time to learn new habits.

But before he could get into the lesson, a knock interrupted him. A wave of his hand paused the holo-lesson, and he called, “Come in!”

Rumlow pushed open the door and leaned in. “We’re moving out, Cap,” he said bluntly. “We got intel — a HYDRA strike team is in the area. They may not know we’re here...”

“Better safe than sorry.” Steve shut down the tablet and stood, heading for his chest of drawers. His clothes were rolled tightly, ready to be packed for a quick escape, rather than neatly stored on hangers. “Where are we headed?”

“We _were_ going to Safehouse B-23.” Rumlow’s smile was sardonic and grisly. “Not sure what the city was called, back in your day. I think it was in Germany?”

“Hiding from HYDRA in Germany,” Steve muttered, opening his duffel bag. “This is one hell of a world.”

“Yeah, well. We can’t trust that it’s safe, so we’re sticking to this continent. You wouldn’t believe —”

Buzzing cut him off, and they both grabbed for the phones holstered right next to their sidearms. Steve wasn’t sure why he needed both a phone _and_ a tablet when they both did the same thing, except that the phone was more portable and the tablet had better image quality. But the phone was good enough for the written alert that came up as soon as he let it scan his thumbprint: _BREACH_

“Shit,” Rumlow spat, drawing his sidearm. “You with me?”

Steve abandoned his duffel bag — clothes were replaceable — and picked up his tablet and jacket instead. Maybe the tablet was commonplace tech these days, but intel was intel, to be protected at all costs. Besides, the tablet fit in the pocket of the thick leather jacket that did double-duty as body armor.

Then he picked up the most important thing: his shield, recovered from the ice along with his body. SHIELD technicians had replaced the decayed leather fittings, and Steve had worked every day to break in the new kevlar straps, though they still felt weird. Unfamiliar. The shield itself, though, was a comforting weight on his arm.

“Me first,” he told Rumlow, who stepped aside and let him take point — right into a firefight.

Gunfire thundered down the hallway. Instinct made Steve throw his shield up, deflecting the bullets. He shouldered Rumlow back and ducked, covering his body with the shield, peeking out just enough to fire two shots down the hallway. One target fell screaming, but he only clipped the other.

“How many?” Rumlow asked, wisely staying in cover.

Steve ducked around the shield, taking a quick look. More gunshots flew overhead, missing him by at least a foot. Did they really think he’d be stupid enough to look _over_ the shield? He pulled back through the doorway and said, “I count four still on their feet.”

Rumlow nodded, glancing down at himself. Like Steve, he wore pants with extra pockets on the thighs and a leather jacket. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any grenades in there?” he asked, gesturing back at the dresser.

Grimacing, Steve said, “No. But I’ve got this.” He hefted the shield and looked at the doorway. “Get ready to take out any I miss.”

“Any you — What —”

But Steve was already moving, diving into a roll across the hallway as he whipped his shield at the wall, visualizing the angles for its bounce. The chime of vibranium on stone was soft, almost lost under the hail of bullets that all went too high. Two hit the shield, but Steve had accounted for that with the strength of his throw.

He hit the opposite doorway hard enough to take the door off its hinges just as he heard the distinctive _crack_ of bones shattering under the shield’s lethal edge. He slapped the doorjamb, stopping his momentum, and twisted to fire at one of the remaining attackers as Rumlow stepped out and shot the other right through the faceplate of his helmet. Two more gunshots made sure the ones Steve had dropped wouldn’t be getting back up again.

Apparently Rumlow and his team didn’t take prisoners — not really a surprise, considering what little Steve knew of them. They were fighting a war from behind enemy lines, like the French Resistance. They had to move fast and stay safe, strike without warning and disappear.

Steve retrieved his shield and looked up at the distant echo of more gunfire. Rebels fighting back against another incursion.

The enemy had probably come in via the main elevator, which meant the obvious escape route was through the fire stairs — obvious for the enemy, who hopefully didn’t know about the ladder going up the steeply inclined emergency airshaft. That was how Rumlow’s men would escape. That was the route Steve needed to protect.

“We need to buy time,” he told Rumlow. “Cover their escape.”

Rumlow nodded, bending down to ransack the enemy bodies. He pulled free two rifles and a couple of magazines, keeping one set for himself. The other, he offered to Steve, asking, “Think you can manage this with your shield?”

“I’m good.” When Rumlow tossed the spare rifle down, Steve frowned. “You’re not keeping it?”

Rumlow bared his teeth in a twisted grin. “Too heavy. We need to move fast. Light.”

“Right,” Steve said, nodding ahead to the emergency stairs. “Let’s go.”

 

~~~

 

Hours later, Steve and Rumlow regrouped with the rest of the freedom fighters at a ruined gas station choked with spiderwebs and tumbleweeds, only for the group to split up again, this time into two squads. Seven hours in the back of a panel truck showed Steve nothing of the new world; in the heat, most of the team stripped off their extra clothes and crashed, though they kept their weapons close at hand. Steve, knowing the value of rest, also forced himself to doze off. The world had changed, but soldiers never would.

It was night by the time the truck stopped again. This time, the air was thin and cold enough to raise a chill even on Steve’s bare arms, though he was practically immune to temperature extremes. Overhead, the sky was thick with stars — and something else.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a light that was too bright, moving in an almost imperceptible crawl across the sky. Bucky had always been the scientist, but they’d gone skywatching together enough for Steve to know that was no star. Maybe it was a planet, but he didn’t think so.

Moore, one of the group’s heavy weapons specialists, got up the courage to answer Steve directly. “I think it’s the USS Carter.”

 _Carter_. Heart lurching, Steve asked, “What?” in a tone that made Moore flinch back.

Rumlow came to the kid’s rescue. “Unity Space Station. There are twelve of them,” he rasped, glaring up at the spot of light through narrowed eyes. “Supposedly a ‘scientific research facility,’ but...” He let the word hang heavily there, though Steve had no idea what he was implying.

After a few tense seconds of silence, Steve asked, “Carter?”

Rumlow glanced at him. “Named for —” he said, then cut off, going tense.

“Peggy. Peggy Carter.” Steve’s shiver had nothing to do with the chilly air. The kiss. The dance they’d never shared. “But if HYDRA runs the world... Peggy was with the Strategic Scientific Reserve. We fought _against_ HYDRA. She wouldn’t...” He looked around, abruptly aware that everyone but Rumlow had backed away.

“Sorry, Cap, but she did,” Rumlow said, resting a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “She was one of the founders of Unity. She’s even got a whole museum dedicated to her in London.”

“No.” Steve shook his head and pulled away, clenching and unclenching his fists. “She would never. She was...” He dragged in a breath, dizzy. Quietly, he insisted, “She _wouldn’t_.”

Rumlow watched him in the darkness, face a grotesque, expressionless mask. “You were gone a long time. Things changed. I guess she changed, too.”

Steve wanted to shake his head, but instead he turned to look up at the bright space station named for the woman he’d loved and admired. There were people up there, living and working in outer space.

What could possibly have driven Peggy to join HYDRA? Steve couldn’t imagine a situation that would turn one of the most patriotic, loyal, fearless people he knew into a traitor.

He was full of questions, but he wasn’t ready for the answers. He wasn’t ready to imagine a world so twisted that it corrupted such good people. So he stood there, staring into the sky, with Rumlow a silent presence at his side, until Rumlow put a hand to his ear and said, “Copy that.”

Behind them, the freedom fighters stirred, getting up off the ground where they’d been resting. Steve’s enhanced hearing picked up a soft, rhythmic _whump-whump-whump_ sound off in the distance. He couldn’t identify it, except to guess that it wasn’t natural.

Lowering his hand, Rumlow turned to the others and said, “Heads up. Evac’s incoming in two mikes. Pohl, Castleton, headlights on.”

Two men ran for the trucks that had brought them up into the mountains while the rest secured their gear. Feeling just a bit lost, Steve pulled on his jacket, then strapped his shield to his left arm. The sound was getting louder now, coming closer, and he was able to pick out a spot of darkness blotting out the stars in a direct line toward where the freedom fighters had disembarked from their escape vehicles. And when the truck headlights came on, aimed low to illuminate the ground, Steve realized what was happening.

They were at a landing zone. An impossibly short, narrow landing zone. There was no way in hell a plane could land here, but one of those three-bladed flying machines from Focke-Achgelis — helicopters, he thought they were called — might manage it, with a skilled pilot.

The craft that descended into the pool of light bore only the faintest resemblance to the German machines Steve had seen in briefing documents and low-quality newsreels. This was sleek and glossy black, bigger than a King Tiger heavy tank, with a rotor at each end instead of one in the middle. It set down heavily on four substantial wheels, and the entire back end dropped open.

“Go!” Rumlow rasped, pointing at the ramp. Steve hung back with him, prepared to draw his sidearm if necessary, until Rumlow waved him away. He had to duck his head and jump up onto the ramp. Two quick steps brought him inside, with Rumlow on his heels.

Before Rumlow had cleared the ramp, the craft lurched forward and up. The ramp raised, hydraulics shrieking, but even closed, it left a gap that sucked in cold air and filled the cabin with noise that tore at Steve’s ears. Rumlow didn’t bother trying to shout. He just slapped Steve’s shoulder, then pointed him to an empty seat along the side of the craft.

Heart pounding, Steve sank down and figured out the safety straps, though he didn’t dare let go of his shield. The last thing he needed was for the whatever-it-was-called to lurch to the side and send his shield flying over the ramp and out the back. Rumlow settled across the aisle, strapped into his seat, and gave Steve a wry, mangled smile. Then, with a shrug, he crossed his arms, fingers tucked into his safety straps, and closed his eyes, letting his chin fall to his chest.

Steve had even more questions now, but no way to ask them. Practical ones: Where were they going? What was the long-term plan? What were they up against? And not so practical: What had happened to Peggy? Where were the Howling Commandos? What would become of him?

All the educational classes he’d taken on the tablet had been meant to update him on modern technology. He hadn’t learned anything about history — and clearly that was a mistake.

 _Peggy, a member of HYDRA._ It was unthinkable. _Impossible_. Maybe Rumlow was mistaken. Or maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. After all, “Peggy” was a common enough girl’s name, and Steve could think of a half-dozen folks with the surname “Carter.”

But telling himself that didn’t help. What if it _was_ his Peggy? How had the world gone so crazy?

Not that worrying would solve anything. He was hungry and thirsty and restless, but there was nothing to do but follow Rumlow’s example and try to get some sleep.

 

~~~

 

The flight was shorter than Steve expected, though he guessed aerial technology had improved dramatically in more ways than one, and soon the twin-rotor craft bounced heavily down in another pool of light nearly identical to takeoff. The only difference was grass underfoot, rather than dirt and scrub brush.

Instead of trucks, there were cars, low-slung and fantastic looking, though they all had wheels. So much for Howard’s vision of the future. Apparently everyone had assigned vehicles, since the team split up without instruction. Rumlow beckoned Steve, saying, “With me, Cap.”

Steve hated feeling lost and helpless like this. Even having his shield was a small comfort. “What’s going on?” he asked, shaking his head to try and get rid of the ringing in his ears.

“We need to lay low, prep for the next mission.”

“Next mission?”

Rumlow led the way to one of the bigger cars, a blue vehicle that was more like a small truck. An interior light came on when he opened the door and picked up the keys that were resting on the front seat. “There’s an IDA facility we’ve been planning to hit for weeks.”

Steve was getting sick of asking questions. He followed Rumlow around to the back, where Rumlow had somehow unlocked and opened the back hatch without touching it. “IDA?”

Rumlow glanced up from opening the black suitcases in the back. “Shit. Sorry, Cap,” he said, straightening up. “IDA. Insight Data Aggregation. It’s...” He let out a wet sigh and looked up at the dark sky. “HYDRA tracks everyone. Everything you purchase, everywhere you go, everyone you talk to. Facilities like the one there” — he pointed towards a glow of city lights on the horizon — “take all that data and analyze it, looking for patterns. Threats. That sort of thing.”

That sounded both useful and invasive. Steve knew the value of the intel provided through a solid espionage effort — that was how he and the Commandos had planned most of their missions — but HYDRA was spying on its own people, not the enemy.

“So, we destroy the facility? Burn the files?” Steve asked before realizing he was still thinking in terms of paper and photographs. “Delete all the data?”

Rumlow bared his teeth. “It’s a little more targeted than that. We’re going to erase _ourselves_. And while we’re at it, we may as well see if we can figure out how they found out about the base in the mountains outside Phoenix. If we can erase _that_ data, maybe we can re-open the base in a couple years.”

“Okay.” Steve nodded, holding back his instinctive protest. By his way of thinking, _all_ that data should be erased. People deserved their privacy. But this new world was still unfamiliar, so it was best to follow Rumlow’s lead. At least for now.

Rumlow’s smile turned a little less menacing. “You’ll do just fine,” he said reassuringly as he went back to digging into the suitcases. “Our team here was prepping everything you’ll need — ID, clothes, full backstopping. A, uh, fake history for Citizen Grant Rogers.”

Steve gave a weak laugh. He _definitely_ didn’t like pretending to be someone he wasn’t, but... “Close enough.”

“Less chance you’ll forget.” Rumlow pulled out a dark shirt and held it up, frowning. “Looks like they might’ve got your size wrong. Sorry if it’s too small.”

Any modesty Steve had, he’d lost thanks to that damned costume he’d worn on tour. “Shouldn’t be a problem. What about the shield?” he asked, setting it down so he could take off his jacket.

Rumlow grunted. “I take it you want to bring it on the mission?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “It’s useful.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Rumlow said thoughtfully. “We’ll pick up some spray paint. The American flag is proscribed. Someone out there catches sight of that shield, you’ll end up in jail.”

The leather jacket creaked when Steve clenched his fists.

Rumlow glanced down, then met Steve’s eyes. “Not for long, Cap. I promise.”

Steve let out a breath and put the jacket down on top of his shield. “Damn right.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Not yet. Stay back there,” Rumlow said before Steve could do more than lean forward to climb toward the sliding side door.

Frustrated, Steve sat back and ducked low to try and see anything out the distant front window, but Rumlow had stopped the truck — “SUV,” he’d called it — in front of a white wall with a subtle grid design. There was no point in looking out the side or back windows. The glass was so dark as to turn the morning sky back to night, at least from the far back bench.

“Where are we?”

“Safehouse just outside the city.” The wall rumbled and began to rise. Steve ducked lower and saw an open concrete space beyond, big enough for the SUV with room to spare on all sides. Rumlow drove inside. This time, Steve saw him push a button on the dashboard right before the wall closed behind them. “Okay, Cap. All clear.”

Steve scrambled away from the back bench as the side door slid open, again controlled by the push of a button. He got out gratefully, stretching his back and legs for the first time in four hours. “For such a big truck, it’s awfully cramped.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Rumlow said, beckoning him around the front of the SUV. “I took a route away from any surveillance cameras, but better safe than sorry. They sometimes change things up.”

“And computers can really recognize someone just from one picture?” Steve shook his head, following Rumlow to a side door. “Hell of a world you’ve got here.”

Rumlow huffed wetly and unlocked the door. “Tell me about it.” When he opened the door, a white panel on the inside wall began to beep. He pressed a few buttons, and when the beeping stopped, he gave Steve a grin. “Welcome to your new home, at least for now.”

The hallway led into a spacious living room, like the sort of mansion Howard Stark must have lived in seventy years ago, with high ceilings and a massive fireplace surrounded by huge windows that looked out into a garden full of flowers and tall hedges. A curving staircase led up to a balcony with a hallway to either side.

“This? About five of my old apartment could fit in here, with room to spare.” He was tempted to ask if the rest of the team would be staying there as well, but he suspected not.

“Consider it one of the few job perks we get.” Rumlow led Steve up the staircase, down the hall, and into a room only slightly smaller than the living room below. The bed was obscenely large. He stopped in the doorway and gestured Steve inside. “You’ve got a bathroom, and the balcony’s safe. No nosy neighbors with line-of-sight. Have a shower if you want. I’ll rustle up some food.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Steve walked inside, half-listening as Rumlow went back downstairs. In a daze, Steve went to the bench at the foot of the bed and sat down, resting his head in his hands.

This was all too much. To go from one war to another — open warfare to battles in the shadows. One _century_ to another.

He’d enlisted to honor his father. He’d run into his first battle to save Bucky. He’d sacrificed everything to save Manhattan. And now, America needed him to do it all over again.

With a quiet sigh, he got back to his feet and went to shower. He’d rest when the job was done.

 

~~~

 

Or so he’d thought. Days passed, turning into one week, then two. Rumlow came and went, bringing clothes and groceries but no new intel. “We’re working on it,” he said calmly, unruffled by Steve’s frustration. “We’ve only got one shot. We’ve got to make it count.”

Online courses on the tablet could only hold Steve’s interest for so long, though. His eyesight was a little too good to stare at holoprojections for hours on end before he got a headache, and he was already sick of the only courses available, all in modern technology. No history, languages, literature.

Without the shooting range to keep him occupied, he did what calisthenics he could. The treadmill Rumlow showed him one night was convenient, since he couldn’t leave the safehouse, but by the end of week two, he felt like the walls were closing in on him.

Boredom drove him to search the house for other diversions, but there was nothing. No newspapers. No radio. No books. But there were a few curiously blank spots — on the wall, on low bureaus and tables, always in line-of-sight of comfortable places to sit — that caught his eye. He was no expert on this modern world, but he could tell something was missing. He just didn’t know what.

Monitoring equipment, maybe. His tablet was supposedly secure against what Rumlow had called “the surveillance state,” but most tech was apparently unsecured. The freedom fighters who’d locked down the safehouse must have done a check for anything compromised. Right?

But the tablet offered diversions other than online holo-classes. It could pick up a few live broadcasts, like a radio with pictures. There were new broadcasts every day or two, mostly the propaganda Rumlow had warned him about. He watched some with a critical eye, until he caught an airshow just starting.

On the surface, it was pure entertainment — a display of military power meant to awe and delight the audience — but it was damned intimidating all the same. These sleek black planes, shaped like manta rays, made Howard Stark’s jet look like something made by the Wright Brothers.

When the broadcast went quiet, Steve figured the show was over. Before he could hit the broadcast selection icon, though, the camera angle changed to show a crowd of thousands, maybe tens of thousands, all rising to their feet. A lone trumpet began to play, and chills crawled down his spine. All the people put their fists to their hearts, parents helping children, and turned their faces to the sky.

The camera panned up to show four jets in a vee formation, flying low over the crowd, smoke trailing from their engines. Abruptly, one jet pulled up and away, and Steve’s gut went cold. Pilots had been flying the missing man formation for a few years now, by Steve’s reckoning, to honor pilots who’d fallen in combat.

How many lives had been lost to bring the whole planet under HYDRA’s fist? How many men — _Bucky_ — had he seen fall to HYDRA, all for nothing?

“For Unity!”

The woman’s voice, broadcast through the tablet clear as if she’d been standing in front of him, snapped him out of his daze. He dragged in a breath and saw the camera focused on the crowd once more, now answering with their own chant: “For Unity!” But in his head, he heard another chant. Saw a different salute.

Lost in his bleak memories, he almost missed the beep of the alarm system. As a rousing march began to play, Rumlow walked in and asked, “Celebrating Unification Day?”

Steve twisted around in time to see Rumlow put a plastic bag on the foyer table. “That what this is?”

Rumlow shrugged and headed for the couch. “They put on a good show.” He sat down next to Steve and leaned over to lower the volume. Then he pointed to one of the people seated onstage, a woman in a low-cut emerald green dress. “That woman there? HYDRA’s Head of North America.”

 _But she’s black,_ Steve almost said before his brain caught up with the modern world. He’d treated all the Commandos the same, but most people in his day hadn’t. Maybe that had changed? The freedom fighters included all sorts of people in their ranks, including a couple of women.

It’d be nice to think there was one good thing in this new world.

After a moment, Rumlow continued, “Beside her is Director Pierce, World Security Council. They run HYDRA’s special ops branch.”

“That makes him a prime target,” Steve said, studying the gray-haired man. Everything about him screamed civilian. Politician. He didn’t have a military bearing, and he wasn’t wearing an olive green uniform like some of the others onstage.

“Like we’d ever get a shot at him. He’s too well-guarded.” Rumlow shook his head and pointed at a half-seen figure in the front corner of the stage. There was no spotlight on him, but Steve caught a glimpse of what he thought was metal. Body armor? “By him. They call him the Winter Soldier. That’s Pierce’s bodyguard and then some.”

“Huh?”

“Look at him. That longing —”

A high-pitched whine made Steve shake his head. He blinked a couple of times at Rumlow, who was still looking at the tablet and speaking, as if he hadn’t heard anything unusual. Steve rubbed at his ear and the whine went away. Probably a power surge in the house’s alarm system. There were a few drawbacks to the super-soldier serum. Too-acute hearing was one of them.

He shook his head again and leaned closer to the tablet, trying to pick out details, but all he could catch was dark hair, a dark mask, and dark clothes. The metal seemed to cover only the man’s left arm. He looked intentionally threatening, like he was trying to provoke people into challenging him. The sight set Steve’s teeth on edge, and he found himself clenching his fists. “Who is he?”

Rumlow’s voice turned even more grim than usual. “Nobody knows. He showed up a couple years ago, just in time to stop our best team from taking out the World Security Council HQ.”

“Alone?” Steve glanced at Rumlow. “Or did he have —”

“Alone.” Rumlow’s scarred face twisted as he gestured to the burns. “He’s the one that did this to me, after wiping out the rest of my team.”

 _Then how did you survive?_  Steve glanced at Rumlow’s hands, clenched into fists, then went back to studying the image onscreen. “Next time, let me take a shot at him.”

Rumlow bared his teeth. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He leaned forward and turned off the tablet, getting to his feet. “But for now, I’ve got something for you.”

Steve had more questions, but now wasn’t the time. Maybe later, when Rumlow had a chance to calm down. “What is it?”

Rumlow picked it up, and Steve heard a metallic rattle. “Metal paint samples. We need to redo that shield of yours. May as well pick what colors you want.”

 

~~~

 

“You sure you want to do this yourself?” Rumlow asked a few days later, his words muffled by the filtration mask covering his mouth and nose. “I can find a safe shop to do this right. Maybe one of the places that works on our vehicles.”

Shaking the can of spray paint, Steve said, “I got it. I was an artist, you know.”

“Yeah, but if nothing else, the shops have paint that’ll prevent oxidation.”

Steve grinned and pulled on his own mask mostly so he didn’t get paint on his skin. “It’s vibranium. Doesn’t oxidize or even dent or chip.”

Almost too softly for Steve to hear, Rumlow muttered, “Huh.”

Steve glanced at him, but he was studying the shield as if seeing it for the first time. _The rarest metal on earth,_ Howard had called it. Maybe in the last seventy years, they hadn’t found any more to dig up?

That made the shield even more valuable. He made a mental note not to let it out of his sight.

Over two days, he’d used sandpaper to strip the shield down to bare metal. A set of the finest razor blades he’d ever seen helped him cut strips of tape with perfectly straight edges to mask the star and one of the outer rings. Everything else, he coated with a light spray of dull blue, just like he’d practiced on pieces of cardboard. Four coats should do it, he figured, and he’d have enough left over for touch-ups after the next firefight.

“You said you were getting me some body armor,” Steve said once he finished the first coat. “How’s it coming?”

“We should have something in the next day or two. It’s not like we can pick it up at a department store. The government —”

“Monitors that sort of thing,” Steve finished with Rumlow. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Don’t worry. We’ll have you kitted out by the end of the week.”

Steve glanced at Rumlow. “End of the week?”

Rumlow grinned. “We got the last of our intel. The mission’s a go.”


	4. Chapter 4

“How many hostiles?” Steve asked, leaning against the side of the quinjet he’d helped steal on their last mission. Though they’d captured the aircraft only two weeks earlier, in a raid on a HYDRA Air Command Base outside Death Valley, he’d already clocked ten hours piloting. The quinjet’s sinuous movements were as familiar to him as the motorcycle he’d been using as his primary transport for the last six months.

Rumlow swiped at the cracked touchscreen to pull up what little intel the rebel hackers had gathered. “Twenty-five, led by this guy.” He tapped one of the pictures, expanding it. White male, buzz cut, thick neck. “George Batroc. Ex-STRIKE, HYDRA Command Euro. Now at the top of HYDRA’s Red Notices. Before he left HYDRA, he had thirty-six kill missions. This guy’s got a rep for maximum casualties.”

Frowning, Steve leaned in to read Batroc’s mission stats. “Is this a rescue? Is he one of us?” he asked without any particular judgment. The freedom fighters were badly outnumbered, not in a position to turn away any potential ally, no matter how distasteful.

Rumlow shook his head. “Kill mission. He’s freelance, but he’s got intel that could compromise us. We’ve been looking for him for weeks.” He waved the rest of the team away and leaned in close to Steve, quietly saying, “And we have a covert asset onboard. It’s an exfil only if he’s compromised. If at all possible, we need to leave him in place.”

Steve took a deep breath, thinking back through the half-year he’d spent fighting with Rumlow and the rest of the rebels. They’d had a very clear policy on leaving no living enemies behind to prevent identification. How the hell were they supposed to handle leaving an infiltrator alive — especially if he and Rumlow were the only two who knew about this covert asset’s real mission?

“Why don’t we wait?” Steve asked. “Take out Batroc some other time, cleanly?”

“Because knowing Batroc, he’ll demand a ransom from HYDRA, HYDRA won’t pay, and he’ll start slitting throats, including our guy’s,” Rumlow said bluntly. “So we go in, take out Batroc and his troops, make it look like infighting. This part of the world, there are plenty of factions willing to fight over a prize like the _Lemurian Star_.”

Steve shook his head — the holes in the plan were obvious, starting with how they’d get _off_ the boat without casualties of their own and without making it all look suspicious. But the freedom fighters operated on strict “need to know,” and he didn’t need the details. He just needed to know his part.

After calling the others back over, Rumlow outlined the sketchy plan, though it barely deviated from most of their past assaults. Why mess with what worked, after all? As the others checked their parachutes and AADs, Steve activated the electromagnets built into his combat suit and mounted the shield to his back.

Steve’s earpiece crackled to life, and the pilot said, “Final approach, Cap. Thirty seconds to drop zone.”

“Copy that,” Steve acknowledged into his wrist-mic. He clapped a hand on Rumlow’s shoulder and got a nod in return.

“Save me a couple,” Rumlow said, hitting the ramp activation switch.

“Not a chance.” Steve shot him a grin and headed for the ramp, listening as the pilot started the countdown. Far below, the ocean was a void, waves reflecting hints of light from the ship in the distance.

“Three... two... one,” the pilot said. “Go, go, go!”

And Steve leaped off the ramp, intuitively correcting his angle of descent to put him close enough to reach the ship but far enough away that he’d be nothing but a dark blur against the night. He was on point, as always, and the clarity of combat stripped away all his doubts and worries about this new world. He had a cause, a mission, and a team at his back. And while the team wasn’t the Howling Commandos and Rumlow would never take Bucky’s place, they were all Steve had.

 

~~~

 

Steve dove over the dead man, swiped up his shield, and rolled into cover, adjusting his mental count of hostiles. He’d killed seven in his first sixty seconds, give or take. Figure three on the hostages, at least two with the boss, five to secure the engine room and bridge —

Another hostile, his black uniform a shadow against the light gray hull, rose up out of nowhere. Steve twisted his shoulder, bracing his shield to throw or deflect bullets, but before the hostile could so much as raise his gun, he dropped, a bloody hole blooming mid-forehead. Steve spun in time to see Rumlow land with quiet grace, parachute fluttering to the deck behind him, silenced rifle cradled in his arms.

“Thanks,” Steve said into his comms.

“Yeah, looked like you were in trouble there,” Rumlow answered dryly, his grin fierce, the way it only ever was in a firefight. His energy was infectious, and Steve laughed, jogging up a flight of stairs, heading for the galley. They’d figured that was the most likely place to find the hostages.

He flattened next to the door, concentrating on hearing any noises beyond — and nearly jumped out of his skin when his earpiece activated. “Crossbones, Garner here. We have bodies. Six hostiles down. Repeat, six hostiles down.”

 _We have bodies?_ That wasn’t standard protocol for reporting kills. That sounded like —

“Clarify,” Rumlow ordered, his harsh voice taking on a wary edge.

“No — No idea,” Garner said, sounding _scared_ , of all things.

And that was the last they heard for long, tense seconds punctuated only by Steve’s own quick breaths. Rumlow finally broke the silence, demanding, “Garner. Garner!”

The answer came not over the radio but as a scream shattering the night, a scream cut with sickening finality. A chill crawled up Steve’s spine

“Crossbones, I’ve got this,” Steve said on the private command channel — not _quite_ an order, since he wasn’t in command, but he was best equipped to take the lead when the shit hit the fan.

Rumlow acknowledged with two clicks. Then, on the general channel, he ordered, “Fall back. On me, people. Keep it sharp.”

Steve looked up, getting his bearings, and then jumped, catching hold of the railing ten feet overhead. His muscles bunched, and he pulled himself up and over, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.

He suspected Garner had been caught from behind. He hadn’t even had a chance to warn the rest of the team about this new threat.

So Steve ran, compromising speed for stealth, drawing his sidearm as he went. It wasn’t silenced like the team’s rifles were, but Garner’s scream had blown all secrecy out of the water. The enemy — enemies? — knew something had gone wrong.

He skidded around corners, hurrying to the other side of the ship, and used his momentum to throw himself over the railing. He spotted a reddish black puddle, gleaming in the ship’s yellow lighting, and twisted to correct his landing. Blood and guts. _Everywhere_.

He hit the deck hard, sending a shock from his knees to his jaw as he skidded in the viscera. His shield clanged into the railing, protecting his spine from an impact that would’ve left him in agony. Grunting with effort, he got to his feet and reached back with his left hand, keeping the pistol in his right. The switch in his glove deactivated the electromagnet, and he caught the shield between his fingers. A flick of his wrist sent the shield up into the air so he could let it fall onto his forearm. He’d never admit how many hours he spent bashing himself in the face practicing that move — and it saved his ass.

His fingers closed around the grip as light sparked in the corner of his eye. Instinctively he ducked behind the shield and felt the subtle _ping_ of bullets impacting the surface, a three-round burst that would’ve torn right through his face. He feinted a fall and swung his pistol around, aiming blind from below the edge of the shield as he squeezed off two rounds. He didn’t count on hitting anything, but the bullets would make his opponent dive for cover.

Or, they _should have_.

He heard two distinct impacts that turned into ricochets off the hull, and what the hell? Did his _opponent_ have a shield, too?

If so, Steve needed to get rid of it, or he’d burn all his ammo for nothing. Bracing his own shield, he got his feet under himself and charged with only the briefest thought to the grisly mess underfoot. He couldn’t see his target — couldn’t even hear any harsh breathing over the slap of waves on the hull — so he aimed by gut instinct, trusting that he’d be faster.

He wasn’t.

 _Something_ hit the gunmetal gray star on the dead center of his shield hard enough to stop Steve in mid-rush. Muscles straining, he glanced over the top of the shield and saw bright chrome plates reflecting the yellow glow of the ship’s lights and a shadowy figure overhead, crouched on a spar jutting out from the upper deck. The fist that had stopped Steve in his tracks pulled back, making him stumble. He pulled the shield aside, too stunned to even think about raising his sidearm, and looked up into a pair of bronze lenses set into a black mask covering his enemy’s face.

The bodyguard. The one from the Unification Day celebration six months back. The one who’d taken out an entire team of freedom fighters and burned Rumlow, leaving him for dead. _Shit!_

A boot slammed into Steve’s chest, flinging him back despite how he’d braced to keep his balance. His opponent staggered back into the railing. Steve’s shoulder hit the deck, and he turned it into a roll, losing his sidearm but keeping hold of his shield.

Thank God. He brought the shield up just in time to deflect the rattle of gunfire that had him turtling into a ball for maximum safety before the sound completely registered. Machine gun fire.

He triggered his wrist-mic and shouted, “Crossbones! Pierce’s bodyguard is here!” He dove into a roll, keeping the shield between him and the deadly bodyguard, and hit the scant shelter of a recessed doorway.

But Rumlow seemed not to have heard Steve’s warning. Steve must have talked over him, because on the general channel, he was saying, “—longing? Is that blood or is the hull rusted?”

Rage surged through Steve, all of it focused on the enemy before him. If he didn’t stop this bastard, Rumlow and the others were going to walk right into an ambush, unaware of the deadly threat.

Four more shots hit the hull. Fragments of flying metal scored shallow grooves in Steve’s face before he ducked again. He heard the _thump_ of heavy boots hitting the deck and knew his opponent had given up the high ground to get a better angle.

Well, _shit_.

Teeth clenched, Steve kicked off from the door, throwing himself bodily forward. With his free hand, he caught the edge of the upper deck and wrenched upward, aiming a kick at his enemy’s right arm — the one that wasn’t covered in metal armor.

The submachine gun went flying over the far railing and into the water below. Fast — too fast — his opponent recovered, and Steve barely got to his feet in time to block _another_ gunshot, this one from a pistol his opponent couldn’t have drawn.

How the _hell_ was he this fast?

Fear spiked more adrenaline into Steve’s already racing blood. He threw a punch to make his opponent duck and swung the shield around in what should’ve been a stunning blow to the side of the head — only to have that metal-covered arm _catch the edge of the shield._

Not possible! There was _no way_ his opponent could be that strong. Not unless HYDRA or another rebel faction or _someone_ had replicated Dr. Erskine’s serum.

Or the metal wasn’t armor but an actual _arm_ , mechanically more powerful than any normal human could ever be. Because that metal arm shoved the shield out of the way just enough for his opponent to throw an inhumanly strong punch right to Steve’s jaw. Stunned, Steve couldn’t brace in time to keep his opponent from wrenching him around and over, into a flip that forced him to let go of the shield or break his arm.

_Fuck!_

This bastard was no mere bodyguard. He was out to kill. And now, so was Steve.

He came up with a punch that his opponent deflected easily using Steve’s own shield. And _shit_ , that hurt, hitting the vibranium, probably breaking knuckles that would take time to heal, time he didn’t have to spare.

His enemy twisted away, spinning, using momentum to body-slam the shield into Steve’s chest. Air left his lungs in a rush more painful than any asthma attack, and he flew back, feet slipping in the pool of blood spread across the desk.

This time, he hit the railing dead-on, without the shield to protect him — the shield in his enemy’s hand. Cold eyes glared at him from the shadow of his enemy’s hair. He’d lost his goggles at some point, though the rest of his face was still masked.

“Crossbones! Do you copy!” Steve shouted into the wrist-mic as he put his hand up to his ear, only to find the earwig was gone.

Before he could think to look for it, he saw a quick movement and ducked just in time to avoid having his head sliced off by the edge of his shield. Vibranium tore through steel like paper; the shield lodged in the hull by the door where he’d tried to find shelter.

No time to rip the shield free. He ran full-speed at his enemy, throwing a flurry of punches as soon as he was in range. But the bastard was just as much a brawler as Steve was, and he gave as good as he got — better, with that damned metal arm that sent shockwaves through Steve’s bones with every block.

A flash of yellow light on bright steel was his only warning when the enemy’s flesh-and-blood hand came up for another attack, this time with a _knife_. How many fucking weapons did this bastard have? Steve ducked back, avoiding a slash that would’ve opened his face from temple to jaw, and feinted a punch to the gut.

His enemy went to block low, and Steve threw all of his super-soldier speed into an uppercut that sent his enemy reeling back. Another flash warned him to smack at the enemy’s knife-hand with enough force to make him lose his grip. The knife went flying, but his enemy proved his inhuman speed again, snatching it out of the air in mid-spin.

Steve blocked two jabs, one high, one low, then caught his enemy’s arm when he went high again. He pushed with all his strength, and as soon as he felt his enemy’s shoulder give, he let go and spun, kicking back with his heel, throwing all of his strength into the blow.

His enemy went flying up into the overhanging spar. The knife clattered to the deck. Steve rushed in before his enemy could recover and slammed a knee up under his sternum. The face mask muffled his enemy’s grunt of pain and surprise.

 _Finally_ Steve had the upper hand. He grabbed the bastard and lifted him off his feet, spun around, and slammed him into the deck, right beside one of the mangled bodies. The move should’ve broken his enemy’s back or at least stunned him.

It didn’t.

With a catlike twist, his enemy was up on his feet before Steve could process the movement. He blocked the punches coming at him with pure instinct, but that damned metal arm got through his defenses.

Fingers closed around his throat like a vise. Metal plates gleamed and flickered as his enemy lifted him to his toes, then off his feet. Steve scrabbled at the metal forearm, grabbing for tendons that weren’t there, and kicked at his enemy’s gut.

The blow was glancing, but it was enough. His enemy grunted and threw him, sending him flying over the dead bodies, all the way to the open area at the front of the deck. Steve hit hard, unable to roll with the landing, and only the _clang_ of his enemy pushing off the railing gave him warning.

He twisted out of the way as his enemy’s metal fist came crashing down with enough force to tear into the metal deckplate beside a vertical support beam. Overhead, the beam swayed, its footing dangerously loose.

What the _hell_ was Steve fighting?

Not that it mattered. He couldn’t leave this _thing_ on the ship to hunt and slaughter Rumlow and the others. He pushed his fear aside, as he’d done so many other times, and rushed at his enemy, ignoring the body-blows that rained down against his ribs. He focused his attacks on his enemy’s mask, his face, hoping to throw a lucky punch and knock him out.

A flash warned him of _another_ knife. This bastard was a walking armory. Steve scrambled back into a boxy steel structure and deflected the downward stab enough to lodge the knife into the steel at his back. He wanted to throw a punch at his enemy’s unprotected body, but the strength in that metal arm was incredible. All he could do was duck and try to slide away, but his enemy followed, knife tearing through steel with such force that sparks went flying.

When the knife hit the reinforced corner, even his enemy’s strength wasn’t enough to force it free. Steve took advantage and ducked behind so he could wrap his arms around his enemy’s body and lift. He flung himself back, arching to throw his enemy up into the air and over, hoping to slam his enemy’s head into the deck in a blow meant to snap his neck.

He should’ve known better. They both fell, but his enemy twisted, landing on his metal shoulder with a loud _clang_. Steve flung himself up and forward, and he spotted a splash of dull blue turned greenish by the yellow light.

 _His shield_.

He rushed for it, leaping the spreading pool of blood, and wrenched it out of the hull a heartbeat before his enemy was on  him again.

Holding nothing back now, Steve used the shield two-handed to drive his enemy back. One step. Two. And then he slammed the shield into his enemy, throwing him into the hull for just a half-second. He darted behind his enemy, raised the shield, and slammed the edge down against that metal arm, aiming for the dark gap between two of the plates.

It should’ve disabled his enemy. It should’ve sliced cleanly through the damned arm.

It didn’t.

Frustrated and scared, every inch of his body in agony, Steve pulled the shield down under the metal arm and back up. The edge slammed into his enemy’s jaw, snapping his head back. When his enemy didn’t fall, Steve reached back, slapped a hand over his enemy’s face, and dove forward, throwing his enemy bodily over onto the deck once more.

But he knew better than to think the fight was over. He brought up the shield, eyes fixed to the body that was still moving, because apparently _nothing_ could kill whatever he was fighting. His enemy rolled away, slapped that metal hand to the deck, and pushed up onto his feet again —

And Steve saw his face.

 _No_. No, it wasn’t possible, but nothing about this whole fight was possible. Real. He knew that face better than he knew his own. He’d seen that face in his sleep for _months_ , dreams full of laughter, nightmares full of screams.

“Bucky?” he asked in disbelief.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. Steve caught the way Bucky’s right arm moved, snatching something off his belt, but he couldn’t react in time. Metal came skittering through the bloody pool, and Steve raised the shield an instant too late.

The explosion sent him flying, ears ringing, eyes tearing from the actinic flash that left him blinded. He hit the railing hard enough that the metal bent under the impact. Pain blossomed in the back of his skull, and his last thought was one of relief, not regret.

_Bucky was alive._


	5. Chapter 5

The Winter Soldier put up a hand and activated his earwig. “Hostile neutralized,” he reported between deep, racking breaths. Sharp stabs of pain warned him of broken ribs. He spat blood over the railing and raised his hand to wipe his mouth, only to stop when he saw three fingers were dislocated. “Report, Stark.”

“Took you long enough, Winter.” The snarky response wasn’t loud enough to cover the high-pitched whine of Tony’s repulsors. “You’re losing your touch.”

“Report,” Winter repeated bluntly, wrapping his metal fingers around his flesh-and-bone hand. His sensor systems were damaged, but he found two possible fractures based on swelling. “Falcon, what’s going on?” he demanded as he started snapping bones back into place.

“He’s — _Shit!_ ” Sam’s answer cut off as the _whump_ of an explosion rocked the ship.

Winter snatched at the railing to keep his balance, but his unconscious enemy slid partway over the edge, dangerously close to falling overboard. Before Winter could fully register his own reaction, he lunged and caught his enemy’s tac-vest by one shoulder strap.

“Hull’s breached,” Tony announced as the boat corrected its list, though not enough. Winter’s boots skidded in the blood, and he locked his metal fingers around the bent railing. “Looks like someone brought demo charges to our gun fight. Rude.”

Overhead, Sam’s wings whined, motors straining to get him altitude as smoke trailed from his back. “What the _fuck_ is going on? Who are we fighting?”

Winter shook his head and tentatively let go of the railing. When he didn’t immediately slip, he drew one of his backup pistols and aimed down at the enemy whose body he still held.

Blond hair matted with blood. Black and gray tactical gear. Broad shoulders and heavy muscles. Winter had no idea how this enemy had stayed on his feet so long — _no one_ challenged the Winter Soldier that way — but he wouldn’t get up again after a point-blank shot to the head.

Winter tried to squeeze the trigger, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t even breathe until he looked away, forward, to where Sam was diving on broken wings, strafing a lower deck with twin machine pistols. _He_ hadn’t forgotten his duty.

Winter couldn’t make any sense of the chatter on the comms. With a grunt, he hauled his enemy upright. _Pull the trigger. Pull the fucking trigger!_

But no matter how many times he told himself to execute this traitor the way he had countless others, he couldn’t. With a snarl, he shoved the gun back into its holster, only to slip and nearly fall when another explosion made the boat lurch.

He deliberately skidded across the deck to the nearest sheltered doorway, still holding his enemy by one shoulder strap. They hit the hull, and his enemy let out a grunt and stirred, lifting his head as though he were coming around.

No way was he _conscious_ — not after the beating he’d taken — but his eyes opened. Focused. When he opened his mouth, blood trailed out, but he still found the strength to say, “Bucky?”

Dissonance spiked through Winter’s brain. He let go, and his enemy dropped to the deck but didn’t collapse. Winter took one step back and found himself paralyzed by eyes as blue as the midday sky, eyes full of compassion. Despair. Longing.

“Bucky...”

 _Fuck this._ Winter clenched his metal hand into a fist and lashed out with a punch that should’ve been impossible to avoid, but nothing about this enemy was possible. He twisted away from Winter’s attack and brought up his shield, not to counter but to defend.

“Bucky! Bucky, stop!”

Snarling, Winter caught hold of the edge of the shield and pushed, crowding his enemy back into the hull. “I’m not —”

“Code Red! Priority target sighted!” Sam shouted loudly enough to cut through the buzzing in Winter’s skull.

He slammed his metal hand forward, locking the joints to pin his enemy in place by the shield, and demanded, “Who?”

“Rumlow!”

First this unstoppable enemy with the shield, and now the traitor, Rumlow? What the _fuck_ was going on here? This was supposed to be a simple rescue mission, not a three-way war. And certainly not one involving a man _Winter had already killed_.

“Fuck _everything_ ,” Winter said, heartfelt. He carried a single nonlethal taser disk, and while he’d normally never think of using a nonlethal on a traitor, nothing else was going to stop this one.

He popped the plate over his forearm, ignoring whatever his enemy was saying, though every _“Bucky!”_ hit Winter’s brain like a dull knife. He pulled the disk out of its hiding compartment and pressed the activation switch. The electric whine was too high for most people to hear — but not his enemy, who finally shut the fuck up, staring at the disk with wide eyes.

Bucky smacked the disk into the side of his enemy’s neck and held it there, bracing against the surge of electricity that locked the muscles in his own arm and made his jaws snap closed. But most of the power shot into his enemy, who convulsed back against the hull before he dropped, shield falling from nerveless fingers.

Winter’s metal arm was shielded from power surges, so he activated his earwig left-handed. “Stark,” he grated out, hoping the taser disk hadn’t fried his comms. “You copy?”

“Loud and clear, Winter. Think we’re about done with this cruise?”

Shaking his head to clear it, Winter asked, “Status on Rumlow?”

“He’s inside the boat,” Tony answered flatly.

More professionally, Sam asked, “You still want us to stick to open air, or can we pursue?”

“Nyet,” Winter answered, wincing when he caught the slip. “No. One of you, bring me restraints.”

In the two seconds of silent comms that followed, Winter clearly heard the crackle of fire. If the ship hadn’t been doomed before, it certainly was now.

“I can, uh... What are we restraining?” Tony asked, trying to pretend it was a normal question.

Staring down at his temporarily unconscious enemy, Winter said, “A prisoner. No, two prisoners, once I get Rumlow. Falcon, get over here and guard this one.”

“I’ll do it,” Tony offered, because if there was anything Tony was bad at, it was following orders. Winter almost snapped at him, but then he added, “I can rig up restraints.”

Too frustrated to argue, Winter said, “Acknowledged. Falcon, get me a location on Rumlow.”

“Sorry,” Sam answered. “I lost him when he went below, after he set off those charges.”

Winter took another step back, scanning the sky for the distinctive charcoal and steel of Tony’s Mark 18 armor. “How long until we sink?”

“Depends how much more C4 Rumlow has and how long you give him to play with it,” Tony answered just as he slammed into the deck. His armor was pitted and scored but seemed intact. His faceplate flipped up, and his voice echoed through comms as he said, “You look like shit.”

Used to Tony’s flippant attitude, Winter just nodded at his unconscious prisoner. “Secure this one and get him onto the jet. And bring _this_ ,” he added, stomping on the edge of the shield, which obligingly flipped high enough up for him to catch hold of the straps.

 _How the fuck did I do that?_ he wondered, staring down at his busted right hand.

He pushed the shield into Tony’s gauntlets, avoiding those too-sharp eyes, then shoved his enemy out of the way so he could open the door. “I’ll get Rumlow,” he said, heading inside. The sooner they could wrap up this disaster of a mission and get off this ship, the better.

 

~~~

 

Sam found Tony wrapping chains around an unconscious body in black and gray tac gear, using his powerful gauntlets to clamp the open links in place. There was no way Sam could risk a hard landing on the slippery, blood-covered deck — not with the ship listing more heavily now and his own wings spitting sparks and smoke — so he dropped down onto the edge of the upper level instead.

Making sure comms were toggled off, Sam looked down and asked, “Since when do we take prisoners?”

Tony tipped his head far enough back to see out from under the faceplate that shaded his eyes from the flickering yellow light. “You also look like shit,” he observed unhelpfully before picking up another length of chain.

“I don’t know what Pepper sees in you.” Sam hooked an arm around the railing for balance so he could lean over and get a better look at the unconscious enemy on the deck. Then he frowned, medical training kicking in. Unconscious or dead? Judging by the blood and bruising — not to mention the discharged taser disk stuck to the enemy’s neck — he suspected Winter’s enemy was at death’s door. “Who is that?”

Tony glanced up again, no hint of amusement on his face, and gave a quick little shake of his head. “Are we secure?”

Sam shrugged, wincing when Tony gave the body a too-hard shove so he could get another chain under his back. All of Sam’s medical training screamed for him to stop the rough treatment, but HYDRA’s laws were crystal clear about giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Shit, technically HYDRA had a take-no-prisoners policy for most combatants, one that Sam had never seen overridden. Especially not by the Winter Soldier.

And that thought helped make his decision. For whatever reason, his new commanding officer wanted this prisoner alive and presumably in one piece — though whether he’d stay that way once they were off this ship and out of danger was anyone’s guess.

So Sam crouched, took hold of the lowest rail, and eased himself down to Tony’s level. “Overkill, Tony. Enough with the chains. Let me take a look at him before you do more damage.”

“Overkill?” Tony’s laugh was a little too sharp, and he went back to securing the loops of chain in place. “Yeah, no. Not if this...”

“This...?” Sam prompted, finding a clean spot so he could kneel down. He pulled off his gloves and started carefully looking for a pulse.

“Nothing. Never mind. Why don’t you go get the jet?” Tony asked a little too sharply.

This was no ordinary prisoner. Something was going on, something that Tony knew about, even though he was just a civilian contractor for the Avengers Initiative. Sam pulled back his hand and stood, activating his wings. “Yeah, sure. You stable to fly there with this extra weight?”

“I can fly. Of course I can fly. This is Stark Tech, not government-issued crap like some of us have,” Tony said, shooting Sam’s battered wings a critical glare. “When are you —”

“Yeah, okay. See you at the plane,” Sam interrupted before Tony could start his upgrade speech.

Before Sam could activate his jets, though, Tony said, “Hey! Wait.” He picked up a piece of what Sam thought was scrap metal. “Take this with you.”

 _Could today be any weirder?_ Sam wondered, pulling on his gloves before he accepted the... shield? The straps slid over his arm like they were made for him. For all its solidity, the shield was light as air, and he couldn’t resist bracing it in front of his body before he remembered Tony was watching.

Staring, actually — and looking a little pale under his faceplate. Then he ducked his head and went back to his overkill with the chains, saying, “Stop playing and get flying. And make sure Winter’s raft is still around here somewhere. If he drowns, he _will_ come back from the dead for vengeance.”

Something was _definitely_ going on, but Sam hadn’t gotten this far without learning when to shut his mouth and keep his eyes open. He just nodded and pushed off the deck, muttering, “Come on, baby,” when his jetpack nearly failed. He caught just enough lift for a shallow ascent that he leveled off once he was out over open water.

The jetpack was sputtering too badly for him to do a quick fly-around so he could inspect the seaplane for damage. Thankfully they’d left the jet a good two klicks off the stern and it had drifted even farther, well out of the blast radius. He made a rough landing on one of the pontoons and only remembered the shield on his arm when he reached up to open the passenger compartment door.

As soon as he folded his wings and climbed inside, he took a closer look at the shield. The chips in the slate blue paint were probably from bullet impacts, but the metal underneath wasn’t even dinged. Was it even metal? Maybe it was a composite or experimental metal-fiber alloy.

Now wasn’t the time to investigate, though. He stowed his wings in a cargo compartment, threaded a seatbelt through the shield’s straps, then went ahead to the cockpit. He settled into the pilot’s seat and switched out his personal earwig for a headset.

“Sea Monster 001 online,” Sam said into the mid, feeling self-conscious as always. Tony should never be allowed to name anything, much less a seaplane. “JARVIS, you copy?”

“Loud and clear, Agent Wilson,” the computer responded in its cultured British accent. “All flight systems functioning within acceptable parameters.”

“Any weather I should know about?” Sam asked as he got the engines started. Instead of propellers whirring to life, repulsors whined. The plane surged forward, nose angling upward over the gentle waves.

“Winds from the south at seven point five knots, temperature holding steady at twenty-eight degrees, visibility ten kilometers,” JARVIS answered.

“HUD overlay. Get me a fix on the Winter Soldier,” Sam ordered, then made a course correction to head straight for the sinking _Lemurian Star_. “And contact Chagos Sea Command, make sure they’re sending rescue boats to our position.”

After a moment, JARVIS reported, “Confirm rescuers are en route from Chagos Sea Command. ETA twenty-two minutes.” Hopefully the lifeboats were in good enough shape to hold the survivors that long.

A few minutes later, Sam stopped the seaplane ten meters aft of the _Lemurian Star_. The forward spotlights turned dark spots to grisly red streaks across the deck. Sam leaned back in his seat with a sigh.

“You were monitoring comms, right, JARVIS?” he asked. “Any idea what happened here?”

“I’m afraid the data is inconclusive, Agent. However, facial recognition confirms the presence of several confirmed traitors to Unity, including Georges Batroc, RN 19051981, and Brock Rumlow, RN 21121969, incorrectly listed as deceased.”

“Yeah. The bastard shot up my left wing before he blew a hole in the back of the ship and escaped.” Spotting movement, Sam swiped a hand through the air to clear the HUD. Tony’s Mark 18 armor was invisible in the gloom, and the arc reactor interface was almost completely hidden by the prisoner’s body cradled in his arms.

Sam pulled off his headset and went aft to open the passenger compartment door. Tony flew over and half-dumped his prisoner into Sam’s arms, saying, “We should’ve brought a bigger plane.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam grunted, putting the prisoner down in a controlled fall. “The mission parameters for our vacation said nothing about taking prisoners.”

Tony pulled himself into the plane over the prisoner’s body and killed his repulsors, landing heavily and probably wrecking the carpet. “We need to make room for another one. Winter’s getting Rumlow.”

Sam straightened up, flexing his shoulders — already sore from compensating for his damaged flight gear. “Batroc, too?”

 _“Batroc?”_ Tony let out an exasperated sigh. “That explains why this all went to shit. Just how many factions were on that ship?”

“You sure Batroc and Rumlow weren’t working together?” Sam countered, eyeing the prisoner. He was a hundred ten kilos, easily — more with his gear and the chains wrapped around him. Fuck it. Tony had the super-suit. _He_ could carry the prisoner out of the doorway.

“Maybe at some point, but I think everyone was killing each other. Sort of a free-for-all.” Instead of doing anything about the prisoner, Tony went for the bar behind the seating area. Predictable.

Sam rubbed a hand over his hair, scratching at where the strap from his goggles had cut into his scalp. “That explains the prisoners, then. Interrogation.”

“Aw, shit. This is new carpet,” Tony complained.

Sam headed for the cockpit, throwing a grin over his shoulders. “Yeah, and you already burned a couple holes in it with your boots.”

“This is a civilian aircraft, not a quinjet. Two hours ago, this was a vacation, not a combat mission!”

“You gonna complain to Winter?”

Tony didn’t answer.

Smirking, Sam sat back down in the pilot’s seat and picked up his headset. “Didn’t think so.”


	6. Chapter 6

Everything hurt.

Steve blinked his eyes open, or tried to. His left eye was swollen shut, and through the right, he saw only darkness. His heart lodged in his throat. Was he blind? Could the serum heal that sort of damage?

He closed his eyes tightly, grunting at the pain that radiated through his face. When he opened them again, the darkness wasn’t complete. Shadows moved and wavered, and his exhale felt hot against his face, reflected back by a hood or sack over his head.

_Thank God._

Not that he was in a _great_ spot, but he could see, sort of, and he was breathing. Everything else, he’d figure out how to handle, given enough time to heal and gather intel.

The shoulder he lay on was on fire, and he tried to roll on his back, but he was tightly bound. His fingers felt cold metal, not rope. Chains? Maybe. If so, there were _a lot_ of them, wrapping around his body from shoulders to ankles.

 _Okay. Don’t panic,_ he told himself, trying to keep his breath even. There was no point in struggling. He had zero leverage, and even super-strength could only go so far. He licked blood off his lower lip and focused on listening to the sounds around him.

The high-pitched whine sounded like a variant of quinjet engines, though the ride was smoother. Better maintained, probably not stolen tech. Running water and splashing sounds implied there was a galley or bathroom nearby.

Then the water stopped, and he heard a deep voice saying, “— for the WSC, doesn’t he? What was he doing?”

“Oversight? Interfering bureaucrat?” a higher-pitched voice asked.

“Classified.” _That_ was Bucky.

Steve sighed in relief that he was real. It hadn’t all been a bizarre dream or nightmare. But _how?_ How had Bucky survived?

And who was he now?

“In case you missed it, this was a _civilian_ vacation your classified —”

 _“Tony.”_ Bucky’s voice was colder than the ice that had stolen seventy years from Steve.

“All right, all right,” Tony answered. “Drink, anyone? Sam?”

“I’m piloting.” That was the deep voice. Sam.

“Let JARVIS do it,” Tony said. “Where are we headed, anyway?”

“Wakanda,” Bucky said. “JARVIS, nego—”

“Whoa, hey,” Tony interrupted. “Maybe we should keep this in-house?”

After a moment, Bucky flatly demanded, “Explain.”

“We’ve got a lot of questions,” Tony said, his voice so calm and controlled, Steve could picture him holding up his hands. “If we drag in the African Coalition —”

“That shield” — Bucky paused, and Steve guessed he was pointing — “has to be vibranium. And that means our prisoners are working with _their_ rebels.”

“Uh... no,” Tony said.

Another moment of silence. Steve held his breath. He’d never heard of the African Coalition _or_ Wakanda, but it sounded big — the type of “big” that should’ve been part of his “welcome to HYDRA’s new world” briefings from Rumlow.

Apparently, there were even more gaps in his knowledge than he’d expected.

Softly, almost too softly for Steve to hear, Bucky asked, “What do you know?”

“A lot more than I can cover in the nine hours it’ll take us to get to Manhattan.”

“Manhattan?” Sam asked. “Shouldn’t we stop off at a regional HQ, get rid of our prisoners?”

“No.” That was Bucky, not Tony. Steve swallowed, tensing against the chains until he felt the links start to give, just a little. He _couldn’t_ be separated from Bucky. Not again. Not after so long.

“He’s right,” Tony said, a hint of relief in his voice. “They’ve got intel we need. Back to Avengers Tower. We’ve got facilities that can hold these two.”

“That —” Bucky cut off abruptly. “That one needs to go in my containment cell.”

_What?_

Steve couldn’t hide his flinch. Did Bucky take prisoners often enough to have his own cell for them or was it meant to contain _him?_ Steve flexed again, clenching his jaw, hoping to get free while they were distracted. But as soon as the chains rattled, all three men went silent.

“All right,” Bucky finally said. “Sam, get us to the Tower. You —”

“Want that drink now?” Tony asked cheerfully.

Steve would recognize that sigh anywhere, even when the rest of Bucky was so unfamiliar. “You’re on your own,” Bucky said. “JARVIS, get me a secure line to King T’Challa. I want clearance to cross Coalition airspace.”

 

~~~

 

With no point of reference, Steve had no idea how much time passed before he heard someone moving toward him. It felt like hours — long enough for at least some of his wounds to stop hurting, long enough for his left shoulder to go numb from the pain of being trapped under his weight, to lose all feeling in his left hand.

But it was time well-spent. He _thought_ he’d found the right chain to break so the whole mess would fall away or at least loosen. Now it was just a matter of stretching the links enough. While being quiet, so no one knew what he was up to. Not an easy task, but it wasn’t as if he had anything else to do.

Out of nowhere, he felt a press under his jaw, forcing his head up, and he made his body go slack. Had they figured out what he was doing? _Shit_.

He held his breath, tensing when he felt hands on his throat, but they didn’t squeeze. Instead, they worked at the tape holding the hood in place, and Steve gasped in a breath of fresh, cool air. When the hood was ripped away, he blinked against the glare of the overhead lights, though both eyes seemed to be working normally now.

He focused — and he caught his breath all over again, because Bucky was crouched in front of him. _Bucky._ Real and alive and healed, though he looked terrible. His hair hung down to his shoulders, ratty and lank. He hadn’t shaved in days, and his eyes were sunken with exhaustion.

“What _are_ you?” he asked in a rough whisper, frowning down at Steve.

 _What?_ Steve flinched again and went to sit up before remembering he was supposedly immobilized. The chains went loose, and he had to surreptitiously grip the links with his fingers to keep his bindings from falling away. “Bucky —”

“Your name,” Bucky insisted, metal fist clenching so hard, it gave off a whine like a straining motor. “Give me your name.”

“Steve. Steve Rogers.” It came out like a plea, and Steve didn’t care. “Bucky, think. You know me.”

 _“No,”_ Bucky growled, shaking his head, and a chill shot up Steve’s spine at the raw threat in Bucky’s voice. He nearly flinched back, but... this was Bucky. Despite their brawl on the ship, Steve knew that if he could just make Bucky understand — help him _remember_ — everything would be all right.

“We were best friends,” Steve said, trying to keep his voice steady. “We grew up together. We were in the war together.”

“No.” Bucky had gone ash gray, wild-eyed, so tense that he was trembling, and Steve strained against the chains, not caring about the deep bruises that went all the way to his bones. Through clenched teeth, Bucky grated out, “I don’t know you.”

“You do,” Steve insisted, though he couldn’t stand the pain in Bucky’s voice. If he could _just get through to him_... “I ate dinner at your house. Your parents, your sisters — we all lived in Brooklyn —”

 _“I don’t know you!”_ Bucky shouted, surging to his feet.

“Huh? What?” That was Tony’s voice, coming from somewhere beyond the seat that blocked Steve’s view. And whoever this “Tony” was, he was no friend to Bucky, judging by Bucky’s current state.

Anger burned through Steve’s worry, through the lingering aches of his fight, and he tensed every muscle in his body, fighting to free himself. Metal creaked. Squealed in protest. Blood vessels burst, spreading heat under Steve’s skin, layering more bruises on top of the ones he already had.

Bucky was shouting now, drowning out whatever Tony was saying. “I’m not Bucky! I’m — not —”

 _“Bucky!”_ Steve ripped one arm free and lunged as far forward as he could with his legs still tangled in the chain. Bucky dropped like a rock, and Steve did his best to cushion Bucky’s fall. “Bucky. Bucky, wake up,” he pleaded, pulling Bucky against his chest. Bucky was breathing, thank God, but it was shallow.

“Back off!”

At the shout, Steve looked up and saw a gun aimed at him. At _Bucky_. And that was all he needed to throw himself over Bucky as a living shield, the way Bucky had done for him so many times back in Brooklyn.

“I said, back off!” the gunman ordered again.

“ _You_ back off!” Steve snapped, kicking free of the chains that came loose in loops. Where was his damn shield? He didn’t have a weapon — not even his body armor — but he’d defend Bucky with his bare hands if necessary, even against two guys with a gun.

“Okay, _everybody_ back off.” That one was Tony. Short, white, dark-haired, and twitchy, reminding Steve of a nervous ferret. And he had something glowing on his chest under his T-shirt, like a gaudy light-up medallion. He was off to one side, standing between two of the seats to give the other guy — black, fit, and wearing a deadly serious expression — a clear line of fire.

“Step away from the soldier.” Deeper voice, the one Steve had heard earlier. Sam? Whoever he was, he sounded used to giving commands. Military, definitely, just like the other one was unmistakably civilian.

“‘The soldier’?” Steve scoffed, using one of the plush leather armchairs to pull himself upright despite how shaky his legs were. Worst case, he could rip out the seat and throw it at Sam. It might not block a bullet, but it would sure as hell slow one down. He took a tentative step forward, hoping to drive the others back, away from Bucky. “He’s my friend.”

Tony shot Sam a disbelieving look. Turning back, Tony told Steve, “Uh, no. Because you’re a traitor, and he’s on _our_ side. Not yours. You get hit in the head a little too hard or something?”

“I’ve _always_ been on his side,” Steve said, absolutely certain that _he_ had Bucky’s best interests at heart, unlike these two assholes. Calling him “the soldier” and letting him walk around half-dead, without even basic medical care... “Go ahead. You want to take him from me? Pull the trigger,” he challenged.

Another voice chimed in, this one male, calmly British — but still enough to bring back Steve’s memories of Peggy all too clearly. “Pardon me, but I must remind you all that firing a solid projectile weapon aboard this jet will risk catastrophic structural integrity failure from depressurization or a ruptured fuel tank.”

Steve knew his grin had a manic edge, but he didn’t care. His adrenaline was up, and he was seventy years past his time, but it didn’t matter. He had Bucky. “Go ahead. I don’t need a chute. How about you?”

Sam and Tony exchanged a look Steve couldn’t interpret. Then Tony took a step forward, not quite blocking Sam’s line-of-fire. “Nobody’s blowing up my plane, because neither of you can afford to buy me a replacement.”

“Tony. Step back,” Sam warned.

Tony waved a hand at him without looking away from Steve. “And none of us wants anything to happen to him,” he said, pointing down at Bucky. “Am I right, Captain?”

Steve’s breath caught at that. For over six months, he’d been Citizen Grant Rogers, civilian. Only the freedom fighters from the Superstition Mountains base had known him as anything else.

“Captain?” he asked warily.

Tony nodded, a crazed light coming into his eyes, and he took another step, all the way into the aisle between the seats. “You’re Captain Steve Rogers, United States Army.”

 _“What?”_ Sam asked in a strangled whisper.

Steve shook his head, inching back until his boot touched Bucky’s body. “I’m —”

“Captain America.” Tony barked out one quick laugh. “You’re Captain America.”

“That a new Red Notice?” Sam asked.

Steve couldn’t let them know Tony was right. There was treason against Unity — which these two obviously served — and there was _Captain America_. Trying not to panic, Steve said, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course I do. I’m a genius,” Tony said with a dismissive shrug. “And _you_... You’re the result of Project Rebirth.”

Steve’s fist clenched, fingers tearing into the leather chair.

“Tony, what the _fuck_ are you talking about?” Sam demanded.

“You know,” Steve said, though the words came out more like a growl. He stalked forward, forgetting all about his pain and fatigue and fear, and grabbed hold of Tony's shirt, right over his gaudy glowing medallion. “You know, and you treat him like _this?_ ” he shouted, nearly wrenching Tony off his feet.

“It’s who he is!” Tony said in a rush as Sam moved to the side, taking aim once more. “He’s not — Sam, stand down!”

“ _What?_ Are you _crazy?_ ” Sam demanded.

“Probably, yes,” Tony said, lifting his hands as if to pry free of Steve’s grasp, though he wasn’t stupid enough to try. Instead, he tugged his shirt down, smoothing it out, then dusted at his slacks. “But stand down anyway. This is above your pay grade.”

“You _really_ want to be that way, Citizen?” Sam asked flatly.

“Born this way. Don’t mess with perfection.” Tony’s grin was more than a little mad. Desperate. “JARVIS, HYDRA Protocol Twelve.”

Steve saw the way Sam frowned at that. “What —”

“The Winter Soldier is not cleared for HYDRA Protocol Twelve. Agent Wilson is not cleared for HYDRA Protocol Twelve. Criminal Brock Rumlow is not cleared for HYDRA Protocol Twelve. No data on unidentified subject,” the British voice said from the ceiling.

“That’s because ‘unidentified subject’ _is_ HYDRA Protocol Twelve,” Tony said. “Sam, cockpit. Close the door. Entertain JARVIS.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, fixing on Steve. “If anything happens to either of them,” he threatened quietly, “you and me? We’re going to have words.”

“ _Nothing_ happens to Bucky while I’m still alive,” Steve said bluntly.

Sam let out a breath and holstered his gun. It looked like he wanted to say something else. But then Tony gave another sharp wave, and Sam reluctantly turned and headed forward, into the cockpit.

As the door closed, Steve looked down at Tony and very quietly said, “I don’t give a _damn_ about your HYDRA protocols. You don’t come near him again. _Ever_.”

“Yeah, no. He’s not my type. Pepper would have my ass if I even tried.”

It took Steve a full second too long to figure out what Tony meant. “Are you _actually_ crazy?”

Instead of answering what really was an intrusive question, Tony asked, “You still don’t recognize me? You knew my dad.”

Steve shook his head, rage giving way to confusion. “Your dad?”

“Yeah.” Tony’s smile went bleak. “You were always his favorite, after all.”

“I was his...” Steve trailed off as the resemblance hit. Dark, small, brilliant, and absolutely fucking mad. “You’re _Howard’s_ son?”

“Tony Stark. Nice to meet you,” he said, and lifted his hand, spraying an icy cold gas right in Steve’s face.

Steve jerked back, gasping in a breath before he could stop himself. “What?” he asked, or tried to, as shadows swam through his vision. He felt himself let go of Tony’s shirt, fingers nerveless, and he dropped heavily to his knees as his legs gave out.

 _No!_ he thought, twisting around to where Bucky lay across the aisle, still unconscious. Steve tried to reach for him, but everything went dark. He never felt himself fall.


	7. Chapter 7

_Where am I?_

Winter lay on a surface too hard for a bed, too warm for a cryo chamber. He heard the high whine of commercial grade repulsors. When the world shifted, he realized he was in flight. A plane.

Tony’s plane.

“Wake up, Winter. Come on. The only stimulant left on this plane is coffee, and that takes too long.”

Tony’s _voice_.

Winter opened his eyes, then quickly closed them when light stabbed right through his head, into his brain. “Shit,” he grunted, lifting his metal hand to shade his eyes. “Report.”

“About time,” Tony said with a sigh of relief. “We’re about ten minutes out of Manhattan. I was just about to have JARVIS fake your city airspace access codes.”

“Ten _minutes?_ ” Winter almost opened his eyes again before remembering what a mistake that would be.

Last he remembered, they were in Coalition airspace, flying back from an unintentional mission that had interrupted a long-overdue vacation for him, Tony, and Sam. The _Lemurian Star_. A battle against two different factions of enemies.

His prisoner. That name. _Bucky_.

He sat up, ignoring the migraine that threatened to pull him back under, and squinted around until he spotted his prisoner — _Steve Rogers,_ his memory supplied. He was seated now, held in place with cargo straps, head hanging down, unconscious or dead.

“Steve,” Winter said, struggling to sit up.

Tony knew better than to offer help. He stayed back, well out of the way, and just watched. “Sam could really use you in the cockpit, Winter.”

 _Steve._ He got an elbow up over the arm of the nearest chair and used it to lever himself up to one knee. It felt like the plane was bucking and rolling, but Tony was standing perfectly still. It was just in Winter’s head, then — some temporary balance issue that his body would fix soon enough.

“What happened?” he asked, looking back across the aisle at Steve.

“You did a system reboot,” Tony said casually. “Your prisoner made an escape attempt, so I had to knock him out.”

Winter shook his head and immediately regretted the movement. He concentrated on getting to his feet. The back of the chair was torn, and he fitted his fingers over the ripped spots. The match was almost perfect. Had he done that?

“Define system reboot,” he said, forcing himself to stop staring at his prisoner.

Instead of answering, Tony asked, “When did you last see your neuro team?” Winter glared at Tony, who was too cocky to show if it had any effect or not. He just sighed and gestured to the closed cockpit door. “Be that way. Can you go talk to ATC, or do I have to bribe them for priority access? Remember, bribery’s illegal, so you’d have to arrest yourself.”

Tony’s logic made Winter snort in amusement. “I’m not a cop,” he said, reaching for the next chair down the aisle.

Wisely, Tony stepped back out of the way, and Winter slowly made it to the cockpit door. Only when he was there, looking down at a hooded figure in body armor, secured with heavy coils of oiled rope taken from the ship, did he remember his other prisoner: Brock Rumlow.

The gaps in Winter’s memory were nothing new. He looked back at Steve, though he couldn’t see his face — only brownish-blond hair, crusted with dried blood in spots. Was the blood from old injuries or new? He had no idea.

It shouldn’t have mattered — he was a traitor to HYDRA, an enemy of Unity — but it did.

Winter pointed at him and said, “Nothing else happens to him. Understand? He’s under my protection now.”

Only the flicker of Tony’s eyelids gave his thoughts away. “Got it. What about the other one?”

Winter glanced down at Rumlow, who was supposed to be long dead. “Hold him for interrogation,” he said, and went into the cockpit.

At some point while Winter was asleep — unconscious? — Sam had changed into a Stark Industries T-shirt and bandaged the cuts on his face and hands. He leaned back, looking over his shoulder, and said, “How you doing?”

Winter took the copilot’s seat and shrugged. “Post-mission crash.” It wasn’t quite a lie. Before the _Lemurian Star_ , he’d been in the field for five straight months. This was supposed to be a well-earned vacation for him and a team-bonding opportunity for Sam and Tony. “You?”

“Never wearing the flight harness over a T-shirt again,” Sam said with a wince, rubbing at his right shoulder. “I got bruises on my bruises.”

“Next time, we’ll ask the traitors to hold off their attack while you change,” Winter said dryly as he put on his headset. Sam’s laugh was encouraging — he wasn’t likely to quit the team if he could laugh at the assassin everyone feared.

It took all of two minutes for Greater Manhattan Air Traffic Control to verify Winter’s identity through voiceprint and codes. As soon as the Sea Monster 001 had priority clearance, Winter excused himself from the cockpit and went aft again. He packed his gear in silence, not looking at Tony or the two unconscious prisoners.

An expert pilot, Sam managed to land the seaplane without more than a gentle bounce. Before the repulsors powered down, Winter pushed open the passenger door and deployed the steps. From behind him, Tony called, “Want me to get the prisoners secured?”

Winter froze in the doorway. He refused to let himself turn and look at the seated prisoner. _Steve_. Instead, he nodded. “Rumlow can go wherever you think he’ll be secure. Just not downstairs, with Security. This is classified.” He turned back to meet Tony’s eyes, to let him know how serious this was, but ended up staring at Steve instead. “Put  _him_ in my containment cell. No records on either of them, except with JARVIS.”

Frowning a little more than usual, Tony said, “Got it.”

 _Turn away,_ Winter told himself. _Leave_.

But he couldn’t. Not until he said, “Give Rogers food, water, and painkillers.”

“We’re not interrogating him?” Tony asked, studying Winter with eyes that were a little too sharp and knowing.

Dissonance whispered coldly in the back of Winter’s mind. Treason against HYDRA was not to be tolerated. Traitors to Unity were to be executed without mercy. He’d been loyal for as long as he remembered. Everything he was — every moment he could recall over the last four decades — was an expression of his loyalty.

Darkness clouded his peripheral vision, a reminder that he hadn’t let his team of neurological experts examine him for months. He needed treatment. To go back into cryo for a few years. To let the doctors smooth out the jagged edges of his memory again, bringing clarity and purpose.

Instead, he shook his head. “No,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument, and headed into down the hangar. He needed space, and privacy, and time to think.

 

~~~

 

Steve was getting sick of waking up disoriented. At the very least, he wanted a damned pillow. He sat up with a groan, rubbing the back of his head, and looked at the featureless slate blue walls, searching for a door that wasn’t there. The corners of the room were rounded, as were the edges where the walls, floor, and ceiling came together. It was more than a little disorienting. The ceiling was the same shade as the walls, broken up by a glowing white light-panel in the middle and four small holes near the corners. Were the holes for fresh air or something more ominous?

No. Bucky was out there, and Steve had to trust that Bucky wouldn’t harm him outside the heat of battle, even if Bucky didn’t _remember_ him. Bucky’s friends, though... They were another story. Last Steve remembered, he’d been about two seconds from pummeling Tony’s face. So how had he ended up here?

Wherever _here_ was. This had to be the containment cell they’d been talking about.

The only thing in the room, other than himself, was a brown cardboard box. Too proud to crawl, Steve made himself stand up and walk the three steps to the box, even though he felt like he’d been hit by a tank. _Again_.

Inside the box, he found a large paper cup of water — delivered recently, judging by the ice. A tiny cup held two green capsules that he wasn’t going to take until he knew what they were. The paper-wrapped burger, though... Just the sight of it had his stomach growling.

He sat heavily on the floor and drank down half the water, trying to get the stale, sour taste out of his mouth. Then he tore into the burger, finishing it too fast to even take the edge off his hunger. When had he last eaten? He remembered having a couple of granola bars on the transport to the _Lemurian Star_. Before that, it was breakfast at a safehouse on the edge of the radioactive waste that used to be Palestine, though Rumlow had called it Israel, as if the Holy Land had existed and then disappeared.

 _Rumlow_. Steve pushed to his feet, feeling more steady now that he’d eaten. He needed to find Rumlow and plan an escape. He needed to find Bucky and help him _remember_. But first, he needed a damned door.

Feeling like an idiot, he finally shouted, “Hey! Anyone out there?”

“Good afternoon, Captain Rogers,” a familiar British voice said from somewhere in the ceiling. “Do you require medical assistance?”

Remembering Rumlow’s lectures on surveillance countermeasures, Steve tried to spot any hidden cameras, but the only hiding places he spotted were those holes in the ceiling. “Where’s Bucky?” he demanded, pressing a hand against the nearest wall, trying to feel for any hint of a door.

“You are not authorized for that query.”

Steve’s stubborn streak reared its head. “Yeah? I’ll believe that when I hear it from him. Tell him I want to talk to him.”

“I will convey your message. Is there anything else you require?”

“How about an introduction?” Steve asked absently, still searching the walls.

“My apologies, Captain. I am Just A Rather Very Intelligent System. You may call me JARVIS.”

Steve stopped his search and looked up at the ceiling. “You’re a ‘system’? What kind of system?”

“I am an artificial intelligence. I run Avengers Tower for Citizen Stark.”

 _Stark. Right._ He’d seen the resemblance, right before... “Tony. What did he do to me?”

“I don’t have that data, Captain.”

 _Bullshit_ , Steve thought, though he didn’t bother saying it. He went back to looking for a door. “Avengers Tower. That where I am?”

“Yes, Captain.”

“And what exactly is ‘Avengers Tower’? Doesn’t sound friendly,” he said bluntly, pausing for a moment when he felt a slight imperfection under his fingertips — a vertical line that might be the edge of a doorway or concealed panel.

“Avengers Tower serves as the headquarters for both the North America Law Enforcement Network, or NALEN, as well as for the Avengers. It is also one of Citizen Stark’s private residences.”

“Yeah?” He got moving again and felt another imperfection about four feet — one and a quarter meters, give or take — away from the first. “And what are the Avengers?”

“The Avengers are the Winter Soldier’s private security force, formed to counter threats to Unity.”

Steve took a shaky breath. Bucky had a _private army_? That meant his rushing into danger wasn’t a one-time thing. God, what if Steve hadn’t gone up against Bucky on the ship? What if it had been someone else? Or the rest of the team? They could’ve _killed_ him.

“Is he —” Steve clenched his hand into a fist and closed his eyes. “Is he all right? The, uh, Winter Soldier?”

“That data is classified.”

“He’s my _best friend_ ,” Steve said, glaring up at the ceiling. “At least tell me if he’s okay.”

A few seconds passed before JARVIS answered, “I have been authorized to inform you the Winter Soldier is functioning within acceptable parameters. Further inquiries on the subject will not be answered.”

Acceptable parameters. What the _fuck_ did that mean? Steve gritted his teeth and felt for the other imperfection in the wall, positioning himself directly between the two. “Guess I’ll have to find out for myself,” he said, drawing his hands back, fingers curling into fists.

“Captain, I suggest —”

Steve drowned out that calm British voice with a flurry of punches that would have shattered concrete, dented steel, destroyed anything else. Paint chips flew, and his knuckles left bloody smears on the otherwise untouched white wall beneath.

“Captain! Captain Rogers!” JARVIS’ shouts finally cut through Steve’s anger and pain. He unclenched his fists as much as he could — his knuckles were already swelling — and gasped for breath. More calmly, JARVIS said, “Please step away from the wall, Captain. Assistance is en route.”

Steve let out a sharp, bitter laugh and backed up, staring at the damage he’d caused to his hands. “Yeah. Okay.” He’d never met a wall he couldn’t take down before, but at least he’d accomplished _something_. Once he had an actual person in front of him, maybe he could get some answers.

 

~~~

 

“Pardon me, Agent. I have an unknown priority alert.”

Winter shook his head and turned away from the shower spray. “A _what?_ ” he asked, pushing too-long hair out of his eyes. He knew every alert code there was — he’d _designated_ half of them himself. What contingency had he missed?

“Captain Rogers requires medical attention. However, I assess his threat level to be significant, and Citizen Stark has already used your tranquilizer on him within the last twenty-four hours. A second dose —”

“No.” Winter ducked his head long enough to get any soap away from his eyes, then went for the towel rack. Motion sensors turned off the shower and activated ventilation fans overhead. “What happened to him?”

“He became” — JARVIS paused just long enough for worry to spike through Winter — “irrational. I believe he discovered the location of the cell’s access door. He was attempting to open it.”

Winter paused in his efforts to dry off. “With what? The cell should’ve been empty of anything that could be used as a tool or a weapon. Who broke protocol?”

“No one, Agent. He was using his fists.”

 _Stupid_.

He heard it in his own voice, full of exasperation and affection, a heartbeat before pain shot through his temples. He dropped the towel and closed his eyes tightly, telling himself not to fall. Distantly, he heard JARVIS saying something, but he focused instead on breathing and staying upright until the pain receded.

“Status report, Agent,” JARVIS was repeating in a low, calm monotone — standard protocol for when Winter’s actions hinted that he might be having a dangerous episode, one that could threaten the safety of anyone who approached him too closely.

Winter exhaled sharply and forced himself to straighten up. “All clear,” he said, focusing on the task at hand. Secure his prisoner. Ensure his prisoner’s wellbeing long enough to extract useful information. Deal with his prisoner according to Unity’s laws. He raked both hands through his hair, noting the damage-related malfunctions in his left arm for later repair, and went for the clothes he’d left on the edge of the bathroom space, where the marble floor met hardwood.

He grimaced at the thought of putting filthy clothes back on and compromised with pants and his tac vest with his two backup knives. His machine pistol was still velcroed to the back of his vest, magazine replenished after the fight on the _Lemurian Star_. Good enough.

The secure containment cell was between his apartment and the common rooms by design. A quick run down the hall, and he was at the airlock door in seconds. “Authorization Winter Soldier,” he said, slapping his hand to the print reader.

“Authorization accepted,” JARVIS said as the outer vault door opened.

“Secure outer door, my authorization only,” he said, figuring it was best to contain the damage. If nothing else, JARVIS could flood the cell and outer chamber with tranq gas and sort everything out later.

“Door secured, Agent.”

Winter focused on breathing instead of the nausea that always churned through his gut when he came in here, though it was worse now than ever before. Every other time, he had the distraction of his team, his security drills, refining his protocols. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this _aware_ here.

“JARVIS, disengage inner door locks. Open inner door.”

“Please step back, Agent,” JARVIS said as the door slid a foot and a half back on overhead rails. Winter shoved it aside, leaving him a clear path into the cell, though he couldn’t take another step forward.

 _Run,_ a little voice whispered, urging him to back away and smash through the outer vault door, to put as much distance between himself and this cell as he could. He clenched his right fist and stared inside.

Steve Rogers stared back from the far side of the cell, blood dripping from his hands, though he looked otherwise unharmed. He let out a shaky exhale, shoulders slumping, and pushed away from the wall. “Bucky. Are you — Are you okay?”

“I’m...” was as far as Winter got before Steve was right there in front of him, touching him, holding him by both arms, without a hint of fear or hesitation in his expression.

“That — JARVIS — He wouldn’t tell me what was going on with you,” Steve said, looking right into Winter’s eyes from just inches away. “Last I saw, you just... passed out.”

Winter should have backed off. He should’ve pushed Steve away. He should’ve pulled free. _No one_ touched him without his consent — and enough tranquilizers to dull his combat reflexes, most of the time.

Instead, he said, “I’m fine.”

Steve’s grip tightened, and he lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Bucky... We need to get out of here. Get somewhere we can talk, just us.”

There were protocols for securing threats, even if they were almost never used these days. Capture, interrogate, execute was the norm. Most of the time, Winter skipped right to execute.

He shook his head, though a part of him wanted to agree. A part of him _trusted_ Steve, which was a clear warning that he’d been compromised and needed immediate neurological reconditioning. “No. You’re” — _safe_ — “secure here. You’re a threat to Unity.”

“I think I need to know more about Unity before I can say if you’re right or not,” Steve said, glancing away. Was it guilt? Winter was shit when it came to reading people most of the time. He depended on experts like Natasha and Tony for that sort of thing.

“You attacked a World Government vessel,” Winter pointed out. “You’re a traitor.”

Steve’s eyes went hard, and his fingers tightened even more, digging bruises into Winter’s right bicep, making the plates strain on the left. “Last time you and me fought together, we were _both_ fighting _against_ HYDRA.”

Winter scoffed. “Not even _close_ to possible. I’ve always been loyal to HYDRA.” He put one foot back, though he didn’t quite shift his weight away from Steve. Not yet.

Steve’s hands gentled, and his expression turned sad. “What happened, Buck? I thought you were dead.”

“Shows what you know,” Winter said, though it came out soft, not full of scorn as he’d intended.

One corner of Steve’s mouth twitched up. When he looked away, Winter flinched, feeling a pang of loss that made no sense. He was still scrambling to sort out what the fuck was going on inside him when Steve turned back, asking, “Then can we talk here? There’s nowhere to sit, but at least it’s just us.”

Winter looked past Steve into the cell, and his gut went cold. He’d designed it, developed the protocols for its use, used it in training drills and simulations with the rest of the Avengers. And though he’d never _needed_ it — yet — just knowing it was here was too much of a terrible comfort to bear.

“No.” This time he did step back, though his hand came up to pull Steve with him into the airlock. Steve’s arm was solid and warm, though filthy with blood and grime. Winter slid his hand down to Steve’s wrist, lifting to get a closer look at the damage he’d done to himself. Already, some of the shallower abrasions were starting to heal.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Steve said.

Something in his voice made Winter look up in surprise. Steve was staring wide-eyed at the armory — the tranq guns that would kill anyone but Winter, the stun batons designed to overload Winter’s nervous system, the magnetic restraints tested against his arm every time he got an upgrade.

Horrified, Steve turned back to Winter. “They said this is _your_ containment cell. Is that —”

“Above your clearance level,” Winter interrupted, reminding himself that _everything_ was above Steve’s clearance level. _Traitor, remember?_ he thought, pulling Steve to the other side of the antechamber. There were two medkits there — one for regular people, one for Winter. He opened his own kit one-handed, without letting go of Steve’s wrist. The last time Winter had left this idiot unsupervised, he’d done this to himself. Clearly Winter had to take steps.

Steve sighed and didn’t try to fight free. “I just want to help,” he said quietly. “Whatever’s going on that you think you need this” — he gestured into the cell — “I want to _fix it_.”

Winter huffed and sorted through the pre-loaded injectors. Most were tranquilizers, marked with blue tape, but he found two with green tape. Painkillers. “You’re not a regular human,” he said, then pulled off the cap with his teeth, rather than letting go of Steve. He spat out the plastic and looked down at Steve’s battered hand. “You’re too strong. Too fast. And you heal too quickly. What’re your operating parameters?”

Steve’s laugh was a little strained, though he wasn’t trying to get away from the injector. “I don’t have ‘operating parameters.’ I’m the only one of my kind, except for you, maybe.”

Startled, Winter looked up into Steve’s eyes. “What?”

Steve shrugged evasively. “I always kind of thought... After I got you out of Zola’s lab, you were different. Almost like me.”

“Zola.” Winter had never heard the name, but it tasted like death in his mouth. He couldn’t hide his flinch.

Steve’s face fell, and he nodded, quietly saying, “He was... It was some sort of experiment, to replicate Dr. Erskine’s serum. He’s the one who did this to me. Him and Howard Stark.”

 _“What?”_ Only Winter’s neurological interface programming kept his metal fingers from snapping the injector to pieces. “Howard Stark?”

He might have thought Steve was name-dropping in hopes of leniency, but it was a logical explanation for Steve’s strength and speed. And if Howard had _made_ him, then he might have given Steve a long-term mission to complete.

 _Or,_ Winter thought cynically, _Steve was lying_. But either way, he could use this. If Steve thought Winter had dropped his guard, he might reveal something.

Unaware of how Winter’s thoughts were racing, Steve winced and said, “Yeah. He’s Tony’s father. He —”

Deliberately, Winter jerked his hand away from Steve’s wrist. “Stark —” He shook his head and dropped the injector, all but shouting, “JARVIS! Containment protocol override, authorization Winter Soldier. Open the fucking doors!”


	8. Chapter 8

“Bucky?” Steve asked quietly as the thick glass doors slid open. Bucky wasn’t pushing him into the blank, blue-walled cell. Wasn’t drawing a weapon. Wasn’t even trying to hold him back.

“You didn’t —” Bucky shook his head, then pushed his wet hair out of his face. “What’s your mission? Were you _securing_ the ship?” he demanded. “Why didn’t you identify yourself?”

 _Howard Stark,_ Steve thought, mind racing. One mention of Howard, and Bucky’s whole attitude had changed. And one of Bucky’s closest allies was Howard’s son. Steve could use this. Gain Bucky’s trust. Get close enough to find out what the hell was really going on. Get himself, Rumlow, _and_ Bucky out of here.

“I was told not to,” he answered truthfully. Rumlow _had_ told Steve to hide the whole Captain America thing, after all. “And I was on the ship because there was a traitor there.” Which was also true.

 _“Shit.”_ Bucky rubbed his flesh-and-blood hand across his eyes. “Who was it?”

“I don’t know.” Steve thought about mentioning that Rumlow probably did, but that would just... complicate matters. No matter who was actually on the right side of this war — if there even _was_ a right side — Bucky and Rumlow were enemies. “I can talk to Rumlow, maybe find out.”

Bucky’s eyes went hard. “I can make him talk,” he said over the soft whine of motors as he clenched his metal fist.

Steve’s heart jumped, though he didn’t know if it was the thought of Rumlow being tortured or Bucky being the one doing the torturing. “No,” he said, putting a hand on Bucky’s metal shoulder as if to ease his tension. “He’ll talk to me. I... I got him to trust me once. I can do it again.”

Exhaling softly, Bucky unclenched his fist and nodded. “All right.” He looked at the hand on his shoulder and touched Steve’s wrist. “You want us to fix that? Or maybe let Rumlow see it, say you fought us to get free?”

Bucky had always been clever, but the ease with which he thought up the deception surprised Steve. Once upon a time, before the war, before HYDRA and Zola, Bucky had always been straightforward. Steve had fought for good, but Bucky _was_ good. _He is good,_ Steve told himself, though the evidence of this fucked-up world made the thought a lie.

Feeling like a part of himself had died, Steve shook his head. “I’ll manage. Just let me clean up first. Get my head straight.”

“Okay.” Bucky looked up and down the spacious hallway, and for the first time since getting out of the cell, Steve took note of his surroundings and felt his jaw drop. With its marble walls and thick carpeting, this was no military complex or prison. Some of Rumlow’s safehouses had been luxurious, but this put them all to shame.

“So this is Avengers Tower. Huh,” Steve muttered, realizing he was still hanging onto Bucky’s shoulder. Reluctantly, he let his hand fall, hiding a wince at how his knuckles throbbed.

Bucky nodded, heading down the hallway to the left. “You can use my apartment for now. Don’t go wandering unescorted.” He shot Steve a warning look. “The Tower has security and monitoring.”

 _JARVIS_ , Steve guessed, nodding. Besides, he wasn’t in a rush to go exploring — not while this fragile trust, built of deception, was still so new. All he wanted to do was revel in having Bucky with him, alive and... well, not fully himself, but they’d get there. Steve was confident of that.

Bucky pressed his metal hand against a plate next to the door. Steve had seen similar plates in the abandoned laboratory Rumlow’s team had briefly used as a safehouse, but they supposedly read handprints. So what did this one read? Which reminded him...

As gently as possible, he asked Bucky, “What happened to your arm?”

Bucky glanced at him and shrugged. “The damage?” he asked as the door unlatched. He pushed it open, then held his arm up. When he flexed his hand, the plates on his forearm shifted — all but the ones Steve had damaged with his shield.

“Your _real_ arm. You know...” Steve touched Bucky’s bare right arm, feeling solid muscle and old white scars.

Bucky stared at Steve’s fingers, frowning. “This _is_ my real arm. I don’t...” He shrugged again. “I’ve had one like it for as long as I can remember. Howard made my first upgrades. Now, Tony does them.”

He really didn’t know. He didn’t know Steve, he didn’t know their past, and he didn’t even know what had happened to his own body. Steve turned away and went through the doorway so he could hide his expression.

Then he stopped in his tracks and looked around, baffled.

Bucky had called this his apartment, but it was like no apartment Steve had ever seen — not in his time or this modern world. The apartment was one single, high-ceilinged room, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, furniture scattered throughout in functional groupings, and not a single interior wall in sight.

The wood floor glowed in the sunlight all the way up to a sandy brown marble floor in the far corner where a spacious bathroom was set up: bathtub, showerheads, sink, toilet, all without any walls to offer privacy, other than bent metal rods used to hang towels. Even what should have been a closet was right there in the open, with clothes tucked into wire baskets and hanging on racks over neatly lined-up pairs of shoes and boots.

“You live here?” Steve asked, surprised his voice didn’t echo more in the open space. If not for the comfortable-looking furniture, it felt like a barracks. Though the barracks he remembered at least had walls around the bathroom and shower.

“When I choose,” Bucky said from the doorway. “Take whatever clothes you want. If you need anything else, ask JARVIS, and he’ll send the bots with it.”

Steve turned back to look at Bucky. “Bots?”

“I don’t allow the human staff in here.” Bucky stepped back, pulling the door closed as he added, “And don’t leave before I get back.”

“Buck —”

But he was gone, and the door latch engaging sounded final. Steve sighed, trying to push away the feeling that he was alone — that he’d lost whatever connection he’d started to forge with Bucky.

And his heart sank when he heard Bucky speak quietly in the hallway — too quietly for anyone to hear without the benefit of Dr. Erskine’s serum: “JARVIS, secure my quarters. And watch Rogers. If he tries to leave or arms himself, I want to know about it.”

So much for trust.

 

~~~

 

Winter had always done everything in his power to avoid Tony’s old labs in Unified London and Malibu Heights. He’d never even seen the newest lab in Avengers Tower, two levels down from the residential floors, though JARVIS kept his biometrics on file, allowing him entry when he scanned in.

The smoked polycarbonate door turned translucent and slid away. Winter made it one step inside before he froze, chest going cold. The curved far wall was lined with alcoves, each one big enough to hold a man — a big man, broad-shouldered and tall. Just looking at them, he felt a closed-in terror creeping up his throat, seizing his lungs. He could imagine how the hard curve of each alcove would force a body to hunch forward unnaturally. How the narrow cylinder would be barely large enough to bring up his hands and claw at the window.

_No._

He forced himself to look aside. The alcoves were for Tony’s armored suits, not for — for something else. They were harmless. They weren’t even enclosed, but open to the room. Alcoves, not cryo chambers. Not prisons.

“Hey.”

Winter twisted away with a snarl. His metal hand clenched into a deadly fist, damaged servos whirring in protest; his right hand twitched for the knives strapped to his tactical vest.

Tony never noticed. His attention was fixed on the clear glass tablet in his hand, eyes reflecting the glowing blue-white letters that hovered an inch above the surface. “Come on in. What’d you need?” he asked, gesturing to an empty stool nearby.

Winter walked over and sat down, glancing curiously at the tablet. It looked like Tony was dabbling in chemistry again. “Your father made Rogers.”

Tony’s head came up, and he gave Winter a startled look. “He —” His eyes narrowed, and he looked back down at the tablet. “Yeah. I was just digging into his archived files.”

“What did you find?”

“You. Or something like you.” Tony hooked his fingers into the holoprojection and tossed it up into the air, expanding it. Winter shifted closer to Tony for better perspective and scanned the chemical compounds. He recognized about half of them from his own bloodwork and bone analysis.

“That explains why he’s so hard to kill,” he muttered. “What’s his purpose?”

“To fight in one of the pre-Unification World Wars. He was the test subject for a program that was supposed to create an army of super-soldiers. Dad did the hardware, and he got another scientist to handle the biological part of things. They called it Project Rebirth.”

Winter leaned forward, eyeing the chemical compounds. “Project Rebirth. That’s what Banner was working on.”

“Exactly.” Tony took a deep breath. “Dad called his part of the experiment a ‘Vita-Ray’ chamber. Rogers is basically you, with some added radiation.”

The surge of excitement Winter felt lasted only a moment. For decades, Howard Stark and his successors had been searching for a way to replicate the effects of whatever had given Winter his strength, speed, and resilience. Here was the answer... seven years too late, after the last holdout nation had surrendered. HYDRA didn’t need super-soldiers to put down rebellions and deal with terrorists.

“Send the data to Banner,” Winter decided, turning his attention back to Tony. “I need to know more about what your father wanted from Rogers.”

“Beyond the whole ‘kill Hitler’ thing?” Tony asked bitterly. “Rogers is the son he always wanted. I’m just the one he ended up with.”

 _What?_ Tony had never spoken of Howard with anything other than the utmost respect, as was due one of the Founders of Unity.

Stunned into silence, Winter just stared after Tony, who leaned over to open a drawer in a nearby toolbox. He pulled out a bottle and poured far too much into a coffee mug until it overflowed onto the workbench.

“Rogers says there was a traitor on board the _Lemurian Star_ ,” Winter finally said as a distraction. “He couldn’t give me a name.”

Tony drank half the mug before he slammed it down onto the bench. “You want me to interrogate him?”

“You? No!” Winter shook his head incredulously, wondering if he was hallucinating all of this. He _had_ been out of cryo for far too long, and the dissonance racking his brain had all sorts of undocumented side effects.

“Well, _you_ shouldn’t.” Tony glanced at him. “You need to keep your distance from him.”

Something inside Winter rebelled at that thought. Maybe he and Steve _did_ have a connection through Howard and whoever — whatever — had created Winter. Maybe it had nothing to do with “Bucky” or Steve’s insistence that they knew each other. If Steve really was so similar to Winter, they could _both_ be experiencing dissonance. It was a natural side-effect of being out of cryo for too long, and he had no idea when Steve had last been treated.

“Add him to the Tower’s access list. Avengers candidate security level,” Winter  ordered. That would let Steve go to the common rooms and training facilities, but not the labs, secure armories, computers, or communications systems.

Tony’s eyes narrowed, and he searched Winter’s face. “Are you that sure he’s still working for my father?”

“No. But we have to make him trust us. I need more information, and standard interrogation protocols won’t work.”

“How do you know?”

Winter got up with a shrug. “They don’t work on me.”

 

~~~

 

Only the memory of Camp Lehigh let Steve strip off his filthy clothes and shower in the open without feeling self-conscious. But once he stopped thinking about all that empty space and how JARVIS was watching him, the hot water and steam worked their magic, coaxing sore muscles into relaxing.

The water had turned on as soon as he’d come close to the showerheads. Now, it shut off when he stepped away, and a rush of hot air blew down from tiny vent holes in the ceiling. He wrapped up in thick towels and turned to the sink, thinking he needed a toothbrush and a razor, only to realize there was no mirror.

“Uh, JARVIS?”

“Yes, Agent Rogers?”

 _Agent?_ Steve wondered, frowning up at the ceiling. Since when had he gone from “Captain” to “Agent”? Maybe Bucky had told JARVIS to call him that.

“Uh, I need a razor and a toothbrush.” He reached over the sink to touch the wall, which was smooth marble, tan shot through with gold. “And where’s the mirror?”

“Protocol WS-004 prohibits mirrors in the Winter Soldier’s quarters. Your other requests will be delivered in five minutes.”

Frowning, Steve asked, “What’s he got against mirrors?”

“That information is classified. Can I be of further assistance?”

Steve shook his head, staring at the blank marble wall. Mirrors, classified. “No, JARVIS. Thanks,” he said distractedly, picking up one more towel to start drying his hair. He headed for the racks of clothes, frowning even more when he saw how grim and uniform most were. Only a handful of shirts had any color at all, and those all had either the Stark Industries logo or a cartoon of what looked like a smiling multi-headed brontosaurus.

Did _that_ stand for HYDRA? It was actually — God help him for thinking it — _cute_. And a hell of a lot more accurate than Schmidt’s one-headed octopus. Some time in the last seventy years, someone had apparently read a book on mythology.

Cute or not, Steve didn’t think he could tolerate wearing that logo, so he touched one of the Stark Industries shirts. It felt new, though, and he impulsively picked up the black tee next to it instead. It was faded and washed to softness, with loose threads at the hem.

Pulling on that shirt felt like the hug Bucky still hadn’t given him.

By the time he found underwear and jeans that weren’t too tight, he was feeling a lot better about everything. He still ached, but his body was healing. Time to concentrate on helping Bucky remember himself.

A soft hiss made him spin around, heart lurching in his chest as he remembered the ventilation ports in the cell. But this hiss was hydraulic, the sound of a small piece of the wall sliding aside so a little black... _thing_ could quietly enter. It was the size of a hardcover book with wheels or something else — repulsors, maybe? — underneath to give it movement. It slid over to Steve and beeped at him. When he walked curiously over to it, the top plate popped open, revealing a new toothbrush, wrapped in plastic, and an electric razor like the one he’d used two safehouses ago.

“Uh, thanks,” he said, picking them up. The little robot-thing beeped at him, then backed up through the hole in the wall, which closed behind it. A polite delivery-robot. How about that?

Steve brushed his teeth and left the toothbrush on the edge of the sink. He was tempted to give the razor a try, but not without a mirror. He’d end up looking like he had mange. Maybe lack of mirrors was why Bucky had the start of a beard.

A quiet _click_ made him turn in time to see Bucky walk in, still half-dressed in body armor, pants, and no shirt or shoes. His hair was starting to dry, and it was in desperate need of a good brushing. He looked Steve over from head to toe, then glanced at the pile of abandoned clothes in the middle of the bathing area — clothes that Steve carefully _hadn’t_ touched, once he spotted the weapons.

“You need anything before you go talk to Rumlow?” Bucky asked, ripping open the velcro holding his body armor in place.

“I’m still a little hungry,” Steve admitted, telling himself not to stare — not that it did any good. When Bucky pulled off the tac vest, Steve got his first glimpse of where those metal plates joined up against Bucky’s skin in a mass of angry red scars and stretch marks. He didn’t realize he’d even moved until his fingers touched Bucky’s back an inch away from the damage, making Bucky flinch and look back over his shoulder.

“Something wrong?” he asked tightly, meeting Steve’s eyes.

“Bucky...” Steve shook his head, moving his fingers closer, though he didn’t dare touch the metal edge. “Why — Why isn’t this healing?”

Bucky’s expression turned puzzled, and he shrugged. “There’s no damage. I have full range of mobility and strength.” He hung the heavy tac vest on a thick metal hanger, though he didn’t move away from the touch.

Steve sighed and flattened his hand against Bucky’s back, feeling a shudder in response. “It must be the difference in serum. The scars, your memory...” He slid his hand up over Bucky’s shoulder and gently squeezed. “I’ll figure out how to help you. I promise.”

“It... doesn’t hurt,” Bucky said, reaching up with his other hand. When he brushed Steve’s fingertips, though, he abruptly turned away and pulled a dark shirt off its hanger. “JARVIS, has anyone made arrangements for dinner?”

“No, Agent,” JARVIS answered. “Shall I place a delivery order?”

“Yeah.” He took a pair of blue jeans from another hanger, then looked back at Steve. “Pizza’s fastest. Just tell JARVIS what you want,” he said before going to the clothes he’d discarded earlier.

Steve shrugged, glancing at the ceiling. “Whatever Buck—uh, Winter usually gets is fine.”

He wandered a couple of steps closer to where Bucky was sorting through the clothes, picking out weapons to pile on the bathroom counter. Guns, knives... Steve recognized the four roller grenades from Rumlow’s briefings, though the freedom fighters hadn’t gotten their hands on any.

“Why do they call you ‘Winter Soldier’?” Steve asked, rather than asking about the weapons. He didn’t want Bucky to feel like he was a threat.

“That’s always been my designation. They had to call me something.” Bucky shrugged and unbuttoned his pants, then let out a frustrated huff and headed to the rack of wire drawers.

“Your name is James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve said, frowning when Bucky abruptly went still.

After a few seconds, Bucky gave a little shake of his head and slid open the top drawer to take out a pair of underwear. “I don’t remember that.” He glanced at Steve, his expression a blank mask. “Are you even sure it’s me?”

“I’d know you anywhere.” Steve wanted to go to Bucky, to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, maybe pull him in for that hug, but he also didn’t want to crowd Bucky. _Take it slow, Rogers_.

“I’ve always been referred to as the Winter Soldier.” Bucky looked back down at the clothes in his hands, then shoved his pants down. He wasn’t wearing any underwear, and Steve quickly turned away to give him some privacy. “The rest of the team call me Winter. You can, if you want.”

“Is that what _you_ want?” Steve asked over the rustle of denim.

“You keep calling me ‘Bucky.’ In an emergency, I won’t answer to that.”

Steve laughed quietly, though inside, his heart soared. That felt like permission to keep calling him Bucky — like maybe he was okay with Steve helping uncover those buried memories. “Maybe we can avoid any emergencies. I could use a break.”

“That’s where we were headed when we got the distress call,” Bucky said. Steve looked back, then turned away again. Modern underwear was _way_ too tight for him to get caught staring. “We were going scuba diving off Australia.”

Steve couldn’t help but laugh softly. “You know, we used to go to Coney Island for the day if we had some extra money that month.”

“Coney Island?”

Something in Bucky’s voice made Steve turn back. Bucky had pulled on his jeans, but he was looking Steve’s way with a frown. “Yeah. Coney Island, south side of Brooklyn. We —”

“On Long Island.” Bucky shrugged and buttoned his jeans, then went back to the bathroom counter to get his shirt. “No one goes to Long Island anymore.”

Steve couldn’t hide his flinch. “Why not?”

“It’s a bioweapon dead zone. It won’t be cleaned up for another few years.”

 _Shit_. Steve took a deep breath and went for the nearest armchair, needing to sit down and try to get his bearings. He’d told Rumlow about his past, growing up in Brooklyn at the beginning of last century. Why hadn’t Rumlow said anything about this?

Somewhere inside, Steve had thought that one day, he could go back to Brooklyn. Bring Bucky there. Use it to help him remember. But now Brooklyn was gone, Peggy was gone, and the _whole world_ had changed. But Bucky was still somewhere inside the Winter Soldier, and Steve clung to that thought. He had to remember that, or he’d go crazy.


	9. Chapter 9

Winter finished dressing, holstering his backup pistols in his waistband, glancing over at Steve every few seconds. He’d settled in Winter’s apartment as though he belonged there, as if he were completely unaware that almost no one came in here when Winter was at the Tower. Only JARVIS and his army of maintenance bots. And now, Steve Rogers.

Who seemed... upset?

Dissonance sparked through Winter’s mind. He shouldn’t care about what Rogers was thinking or feeling, except as it related to getting information. _Irrational,_ his programming whispered, but it was as easy as breathing to ignore it and walk over to the couch.

“Did you just get out?” he asked, sitting down close to Steve, almost close enough to touch.

Steve looked up at him with an expression he didn’t know how to decipher. “Out?”

“Of cryo.”

“Cryo?”

Strange. Steve was acting like he’d never heard of cryostasis before. Winter frowned, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees, presenting a nonthreatening posture. His PR department had drilled him for weeks after he’d scared the crap out of one too many talk show hosts. “Cryo. For a reset.”

Steve shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

_He really doesn’t know_. Winter went tense, calculating exactly how to move to draw his weapons without broadcasting his intent, to catch Steve off-guard. If he’d been out of cryo for too long — as in, since Howard made him — then he was a threat to everyone in the Tower.

In a calm, steady voice, Winter asked, “How do you prevent neurological decay and cognitive failure?”

_“What?”_ It sounded genuinely startled. That or Steve was an expert actor, which was possible. He pushed to the edge of his seat, fists clenched. “Do you... Are you sure _you’re_ okay?”

If Steve’s handlers weren’t monitoring him for failure, how could Winter trust the results of any interrogation? Or was Steve’s brain _stable_? Tony had mentioned Howard using some form of radiation on Steve. Was that the key to Winter’s own stability?

“No,” he said bluntly, hoping to draw Steve out. He seemed to actually _care_ about Winter as more than an asset. Showing vulnerability might get him to drop his guard. “I’m overdue, but there’s still too much work to do. But if you weren’t in cryo this whole time, where have you been?”

Steve took a deep breath. “I spent a lot of that time in the arctic. The... enemy was trying to bomb Manhattan. The only way I could stop it was to crash the bomber into the ice.”

The arctic? Bombing Manhattan? “That —” Winter shook his head. “You basically went into cryo without any prep?”

Steve shrugged. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

“But you’re not —” Winter closed his mouth and looked away, trying to focus on the subtle interrogation and not... whatever he was feeling under the static in his head. It felt almost like _jealousy_. For as long as he remembered, he’d been broken, held together by the desperate efforts of a team of neurologists and his own stubborn streak. 

“Not...?” Steve prompted.

“Showing any signs of dissonance. When were you last treated?”

Softly, Steve said, “I don’t need any sort of treatment. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

Winter couldn’t hold back a sharp, bitter laugh. “I guess Howard really did do a better job on you. He couldn’t fix me. The best he could do was come up with a maintenance plan.”

“A _maintenance_ plan? You’re not a car, Bucky. And whatever ‘maintenance’ they’ve been doing on you doesn’t seem to be good enough.”

Winter’s training warned him to stop showing weakness — to focus on getting relevant information out of Steve, then containing his threat. But Winter had been out of cryo for long enough that the voice of his selfish side was louder than a mere whisper. “It’s all that works,” he said, meeting Steve’s eyes. “Without treatment... I lose track of what’s going on around me. There’ve been incidents. I turn dangerous. More dangerous.”

Steve sat back, face going even more pale than it already was. “The containment cell. That’s why...”

Winter nodded. “I designed it to keep the team safe. They all know how to stop me, if I lose control.”

“So that’s what Stark did to me.”

Winter’s protective instinct roared to life. His overtrained brain mapped the best way to Tony’s lab: down the outside of the building, away from JARVIS’ direct surveillance. Break the glass with an explosive charge at a weak point. Silence Tony before he could call one of his suits for backup.

“What did he do?” he growled, damaged plates grating together in his metal arm as his fingers twitched.

“Sprayed some kind of gas in my face.” Steve held up his hands, adding, “It’s okay. It just knocked me out for a while.”

Right. Tony had mentioned that. Winter let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and forced his arm to relax before he could do more damage to it. “The senior members of the team all carry nonlethals to stop me if I’m a threat. That’s —” A pang of guilt silenced him for a moment as he glanced at Steve’s neck. There was no scar, not even a reddish mark, but he was probably still in pain from the convulsions. “That’s what I used on you. A taser disk.”

“A taser disk, huh? Pretty effective.” Steve’s mouth twitched up in a faint smile.

“Be glad it wasn’t one of the stun batons,” Winter said wryly. “They lock up your muscles so hard, your bones crack.”

Steve gave an exaggerated shudder. “How about we agree to talk first next time?”

That idea went against every regulation HYDRA had regarding traitors and threats to the stability of Unity. Then again, so did having Steve outside his cell — something Steve would know or at least understand if he really was on a long-term mission for Howard.

But the dull roar of dissonance in the back of Winter’s head was quieter than it had been in weeks. He had no trouble at all giving Steve a faint smile of his own and saying, “We can try.”

~~~

Just when Steve thought he was really connecting with Bucky, maybe even enough that it would be safe to ask about Rumlow, JARVIS interrupted, “Pardon me, agents. Dinner is available in the main dining room.”

Bucky got up, saying, “Come with me,” and headed to the door — not the closet area, even though he was barefoot.

“Uh, let me grab some shoes,” Steve said, looking down at his own bare feet.

Bucky turned back, hair trailing over his eyes, making Steve’s fingers itch to brush it away. “I’m — _We’re_ not supposed to need them. It’s a physical reminder that we’re not under threat.”

Was that a rule or something less formal? Either way, if Bucky needed to skip wearing shoes just so he’d remember not to attack someone at the dinner table, things were even worse than Steve feared.

So he followed Bucky out into the hall, ignoring the memory of his mom’s voice scolding him for poor manners. The way Bucky’s shirt was hanging drew his eye for a few seconds before he realized what he was seeing. He caught up, moving around to Bucky’s right side, and asked, “If we’re supposed to be safe, why are you carrying weapons?”

Bucky actually hesitated in mid-step. Slowly, his brows drew down, but not in anger — not judging by the way his gaze went distant.

Did he not even realize he’d tucked two guns into the back of his jeans? Gently, Steve touched his arm, curving fingers around scars and warm skin and hard muscle. “Hey. I’ve got your back. I’m not letting anyone hurt you. Not even _threaten_ you.”

After one blink, Bucky glanced at Steve’s face, then at his hand. Slowly, he reached his metal hand back, twitching up the hem of his shirt. Steve heard a plastic _click_ ; then Bucky offered him a small Derringer in a black holster.

_That_ was trust, small-calibre or not. Steve accepted with his free hand, saying, “You know, back in London, one of the quartermasters offered Peggy a gun like this, only a little smaller.”

“Peggy?”

“Peggy Carter,” Steve said, and Bucky’s eyes widened. Good. The reminder that Steve knew both Howard _and_ Peggy would help keep Bucky from getting suspicious. “She carried a Walther behind the lines, but in the field, she had a Tommy gun like the rest of us. Except for you.”

Another blink, this one with a little frown. “Huh?”

Steve nodded, feeling Bucky’s pulse racing under his fingers. “You were our sniper. You were the one watching my back, taking out threats before I could even see them.”

“I... I was a _sniper?_ ” Bucky asked very softly.

“The best we had. You had this rifle — an M1941 Johnson — and you got Howard to customize a scope for you,” Steve said encouragingly, trying to coax Bucky’s memories back. “All the rest of the Howling Commandos were so jealous...”

He trailed off when Bucky tensed up, then winced. Bucky’s mouth opened as he slowly hunched forward, fingers curling into claws as he grabbed at his head.

“No. Bucky, easy,” Steve said, in a panic. He grabbed Bucky’s shoulders, trying to keep him upright.

Bucky snarled, clenching his jaw, his body so tense that he started trembling. He muttered something that didn’t sound like English — but Bucky didn’t speak any other languages. He hadn’t even picked up German, except for a couple of swear words.

“JARVIS?” Steve asked before thinking JARVIS might not hear him in the hall. And they were already far from Bucky’s apartment, so Steve shouted, “JARVIS!”

JARVIS’s answer echoed from overhead: “Agent —”

Bucky staggered forward, and Steve caught him, holding him tight. “JARVIS, help! What’s —”

“Critical cognitive dissonance,” JARVIS said unhelpfully. “His emergency medical response team is en route. They should —”

“No!”

“These protocols were developed by the Winter Soldier himself, Agent Rogers.”

“Well, I’m overriding them,” Steve insisted. “Your protocols haven’t done a damn thing to help him.”

He looked up and down the hallway, but he had no mental map of the building. They were halfway between the containment cell and Bucky’s apartment. He took a single step toward the containment cell, remembering the armory inside it, but that was a lobster trap — a one-way door that would let them in but not out again. And those vent holes could easily be used to introduce enough gas to tranquilize them both, and then Steve _couldn’t_ stop them from taking Bucky away.

_Fuck that_.

“Come on, Buck. Stay with me,” he said grimly, remembering the last time he’d carried Bucky out of a bad situation and into a worse one. But they’d escaped the burning factory, and they’d find a way out of this. Together. _Without_ any of these other so-called friends.

Leaving the fallen gun, Steve ducked under Bucky’s right arm, took hold of his waist, and half-carried, half-dragged him down the hall to the apartment. Not trusting JARVIS to help, Steve leaned Bucky against the wall and ducked around to his other side.

“Bucky, help me out here,” he said, propping Bucky up with his hip as he pressed Bucky’s metal hand to the glass plate. When the door didn’t unlock on its own, Steve swore under his breath. Was there an invisible switch? Some electronic device that Bucky himself had to trigger? In a quick rush, he urged, “Bucky. Open the door. We’re at your apartment, Bucky. _Open the door_.”

Bucky blinked a few times, lashes fluttering, and lifted his head enough to frown at the door. He spread his metal fingers a bit more and groaned, resting his forehead against the wall. Again, he muttered something in Russian — something that sounded like “toe slooshy” — but trailed off with a pained gasp.

Whatever it meant, it wasn’t important. The door unlocked, and Steve pulled Bucky back into his arms and opened the door. He got inside and slammed the door shut, then eased Bucky to the floor so he could throw the bolts. Security came before comfort.

“Agent Rogers,” JARVIS said, still infuriatingly calm. “The Winter Soldier’s protocols —”

“JARVIS, don’t,” Steve snapped. “Not one more word.”

It worked. JARVIS shut up, and Steve got Bucky up off the floor and over to the couch. He twisted, straining his back to lower Bucky as gently as he could. All the strength in the world didn’t make it easy to handle a nearly-unconscious body.

Steve wanted nothing more than to kneel down next to the couch and try to soothe the lines of pain from Bucky’s face, but the threat of the emergency medical response team weighed heavily on his mind. Instead, he went for the weapons on the counter — specifically, the cross between a machine gun and a pistol.

He wasn’t familiar with it, but he’d learned a thing or two in his time with the Howling Commandos. He dropped the magazine and guessed there were twenty rounds, give or take, and he wasn’t surprised to find Bucky kept a round chambered. The stock was flimsy-looking wire that flipped over the weapon and proved to be strong enough to take the recoil, though he snapped it back into its more compact form for easy carrying. He found four spare magazines tucked into pouches still hanging from the tac belt.

He carried everything over to the coffee table in front of the couch with a grim sense of satisfaction. Between the guns, the knives, and the grenades, he could hopefully hold off any threats long enough for Bucky to wake up.


	10. Chapter 10

“But what _kind_ of radiation?” Tony asked, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. Too late, he remembered the silver thermal compound covering his fingers, but fuck it. He was already going gray from stress. And upgrading one of his servers with a new coprocessor wasn’t helping, but he needed the extra computing power to help deal with Dad’s outdated file system.

“Well, we know it’s not gamma radiation,” Bruce answered, stool creaking as he swiveled around to lean on Tony’s workbench. “How are you coming with the hardware?”

“I’m trying to reverse engineer seventy-plus-year-old tech based on black and white photos of the external casing and JARVIS’ best guess at Rogers’ bloodwork from samples scraped from a wall. It’s going great.” Tony flashed his most confident grin — the one he used when everything was going to shit. This time, he remembered to wipe his hands on his jeans before picking up his coffee cup.

“Have you tried asking Rogers —”

“Code Zero,” JARVIS interrupted from the overhead speakers. “Code Zero, residential level one. Emergency medical response team to residential level one.”

“Shit!” Tony’s first instinct was to suit up and assist the medical team, but Bruce was potentially as much a threat as an out-of-control Winter. If Winter attacked and Bruce responded _that way_ , the two of them could take down the Tower.

But Bruce had been incident-free for more than a year, and right now, he looked calm and collected. Frowning, he got to his feet, asking, “Need my help?”

Tony snatched up his gauntlets, then nodded hesitantly. “We may need your Other Half.”

He almost missed the way Bruce’s shoulders slumped in resignation. “I figured,” Bruce said, leaving his glasses on the workbench.

Trying not to think about the potential hazard at his back, Tony ran for the emergency stairs, knowing JARVIS would give elevator priority to the members of the response team down on the third floor. That was the only flaw in the plan for Code Zero — Winter’s crisis handlers were dangerously far away, but keeping them close left Winter feeling under constant threat. It was a terrible balancing act.

Running two floors up left Tony’s head pounding. He should’ve done more than just nap on the plane. He should’ve skipped the last four cups of coffee. And the triple-shot of scotch wasn’t helping. Thankfully, he was used to living with his own poor life choices.

And rushing up here with no one but Bruce for backup, Tony realized as he hit the residential level, was definitely one of them.

“JARVIS, location, Winter Soldier,” he said, staring down the ominously empty hallway.

“The Winter Soldier is inside his quarters with Agent Rogers, Citizen.”

Tony darted a look at Bruce, whose eyebrows shot up. Was he curious about the “Agent” part or the thought of _anyone_ in Winter’s private quarters? “Is anyone hurt?” he asked. He was always the first one on the team to consider casualties and collateral damage.

“Sensors report the Winter Soldier is unconscious but life signs are stable,” JARVIS reported. “Agent Rogers is unharmed.”

“That’s something,” Bruce said, relieved.

“Something, but not enough,” Tony said, heading past the containment cell. He stopped in his tracks when he spotted a Derringer on the floor — one of the Winter Soldier’s backup weapons. That was probably a bad sign. He scooped it up and broke into a run for the apartment, saying, “We need to get him secured. JARVIS, door lock override.” He slapped his hand to the security reader.

“I cannot comply, Citizen,” JARVIS said. “Interior security deadbolt is engaged.”

“Just how secure is that deadbolt?” Bruce asked, brow furrowed.

“Except for the picture window, the apartment’s built to saferoom protocols,” Tony said, flexing his gauntleted fingers. “I can suit up, blow through the glass —”

“Hang on,” Bruce interrupted. “JARVIS, what’s going on inside?”

“I have no relevant data, Citizen Banner,” JARVIS answered.

When Bruce shot Tony a frown, Tony said, “Winter doesn’t like monitoring. He has to say JARVIS’ name to initiate anything.”

Bruce sighed. “But JARVIS has physiological monitoring capability?”

“I do, Citizen,” JARVIS said over Tony’s “yes.”

Bruce held out a hand to Tony, fingers twitching. “Give me your phone. JARVIS, show me realtime heart rate.”

“Looking to see if they’re killing each other?” Tony said, handing over the phone, refusing to be jealous that he hadn’t thought of it first. Biologicals weren’t his thing.

The screen flickered, then resolved into two heart monitor lines. The margin of error was fifteen percent, which wasn’t too bad, considering JARVIS was monitoring based on sound through ambient pickups.

“Steady and slow for both of them,” Bruce said thoughtfully. “No sign of Winter’s usual violent reaction during an episode. JARVIS, are you sure this is a Code Zero?”

“Confirmed, Doctor,” JARVIS answered, a hint of exasperation showing in his synthesized tone of voice.

“What was the start of the trigger episode? Play it back for us,” Tony ordered.

“Audio playback commencing.”

The heart monitor lines kept pulsing, while the phone broadcasted Rogers’ voice: “Peggy Carter. She carried a Walther behind the lines, but in the field, she had a Tommy gun like the rest of us. Except for you.”

“Huh?” Winter answered.

“You were our sniper. You were the one watching my back, taking out threats before I could even see them.”

“I... I was a _sniper?_ ”

Bruce shot Tony a wide-eyed look. Tony shook his head, concentrating on the conversation.

“The best we had. You had this rifle — an M1941 Johnson — and you got Howard to customize a scope for you. All the rest of the Howling Commandos were so jealous...” A moment later, Rogers spoke up, sounding panicked: “No. Bucky, easy.”

“Bucky?” Bruce asked.

“Stop playback,” Tony ordered, angry at himself for forgetting that JARVIS didn’t have refined algorithms to censor out information that should’ve been locked behind Protocol Twelve. “Not important. We need —”

“It _is_ important. Everything I heard” — Bruce nodded at the phone — “implies there’s a connection beyond them being part of the same sort of experiment.”

 _So that’s what happened._ Tony’s eyes narrowed as the pieces fell into place. “More than just a connection. Rogers is all that’s keeping Winter grounded through his episode, like on the plane.”

Bruce shot him a questioning look.

Tony shook his head again, distracted with chasing down a thought that wasn’t quite formed. “‘I’m not Bucky,’” he quoted, figuring fuck Protocol Twelve. He needed to bounce ideas off someone, and Bruce was better with people than JARVIS. “Whatever triggered the micro-episode on the plane, that’s the last thing Winter said. ‘I’m not Bucky.’”

“Who’s Bucky supposed to be?”

Tony took a deep breath. “The Winter Soldier.” He turned to Bruce, whose eyes had gone wide, staring. “That’s who he is. James Buchanan Barnes, Bucky to his friends.”

Bruce’s usual frown came back, redoubled. “Rogers knew him before the super-soldier program that made him.”

“I’ll give you the details later,” Tony promised. “JARVIS, repeat playback.”

“What’s —” Bruce cut off when Tony held up a hand, and they both listened to the conversation between Winter and Rogers again.

“The past,” Tony said, pushing a hand through his hair as he started to pace. He felt gunk and jerked his hand down. What the hell was the silver goop on his palm?

Thermal compound. Right. He’d been modding computers again.

“They were talking about the past,” Bruce said softly. “ _Their_ past.”

“Which triggered each episode. Each _micro_ -episode,” Tony said, pointing a silvery finger at the phone. “And instead of going into kill-mode, Winter’s just passing out. And if this goes like it did on the plane, he’ll be awake in a few hours, with no further deterioration.”

“No deterioration? The physiological stress of these episodes has a measurable impact on his brain,” Bruce insisted. “Even without the before and after MRI scans, we’ve both seen the effects. His balance, his speech. His _temper_.”

Tony shook his head. “None of that happened on the plane. He woke up _stable_. I had five different kinds of nonlethals ready to use on him, and he didn’t need a single one,” he explained in a rush. “The most he could’ve used was a cup of coffee.”

Bruce took a deep breath, eyeing the apartment door. “We’ve always theorized —”

“Medical team approaching,” JARVIS interrupted.

“Cancel Code Zero,” Tony said impulsively, ignoring the way Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “Call it a drill. Make up some metrics on response time and whatnot.”

“Very good, Citizen,” JARVIS drawled.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” Bruce asked skeptically.

Tony flashed his number-one grin. “Of course. Genius, remember?”

“What happened to ‘I don’t do biological systems’?”

“That’s been our mistake all along,” Tony insisted. “We’ve been treating the Winter Soldier like a biological, when he’s not. He’s a _program_ , only one that’s been patched more than Windows, with no beta testing. He’s spaghetti code in a wetwork interface.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Bruce laughed, handing Tony back his phone. “And I hope you realize, if you’re wrong, you’ve probably just killed Rogers.”

“Nope. One, I’m always right. It’s in my job description. And two,” Tony said, giving Bruce a push toward the nearest elevator, “I haven’t killed anyone. I’ve _saved_ Winter.”

 

~~~

 

“Okay, Bucky. Okay. We’ll figure this out,” Steve said, resting one hand on the machine pistol, the other on Bucky’s chest. He tried to stop looking over his shoulder at the door — to concentrate on Bucky — but he couldn’t help anticipating the attack that was sure to come. Because maybe JARVIS _said_ emergency medical team, but he _meant_ a security squad armed with those stun batons and tranquilizer gas grenades.

But so far, they were secure. JARVIS hadn’t routed any tranquilizer gas through the vents in the high ceiling, nor had he sent in those little robots with flashbangs. And nobody was breaking down the door.

_Yet._

“Well, maybe this isn’t the worst situation we’ve been in, but it’s not good,” he said into the silence. Under his palm, Bucky’s heart beat steadily and slowly. It wasn’t racing, which had to be a good sign, right? “We’re kind of high up to go jumping out the window. Don’t suppose you keep a parachute in here, huh?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Didn’t stir at all.

Steve twisted around to look at him more closely and couldn’t help but touch his fingertips to the dark brown stubble covering Bucky’s jaw. He’d always been clean-shaven, hair neatly combed, clothes as perfect as his parents could afford to provide in a family with four kids. Now, his long hair had dried in tangles, the ends split and frayed, and he dressed in practical jeans and uniform dark T-shirts.

Not that Steve could keep from staring, drinking in the sight of the most important person in his life. He’d loved Peggy dearly, but Bucky had been his whole world for... well, _forever_.

“I’ll get you back,” he whispered — a promise he’d die to keep if he had to.

He threw a wary look at the door, but it was still quiet. Either the hall outside was deserted or the door and walls were too thick for sound to pass through. He suspected the latter.

With a quiet sigh, he went back to his study of Bucky’s face, but he couldn’t stop thinking of Bucky’s words. Treatment, meant to keep him from being a threat to those around him. Cryo, which he’d compared to the seventy years Steve had spent under the ice.

“What have they done to you?” he asked, closing his eyes. God, he was tired of this. Tired of coming close to happiness, only to lose it. He’d finally been able to fight for his country, only to lose Bucky. Peggy had kissed him, and he’d lost her. And now, he had Bucky back, but Bucky didn’t even know who he was...

Steve frowned, looking over at the windows, remembering the conversation on the plane. He’d been talking about Brooklyn, about Bucky’s family, about how he and Bucky had grown up together. And just now, he’d been talking about Bucky’s role in the Howling Commandos, about the gun Bucky had used.

He’d been talking about their shared past, in detail.

How could their _past_ set off these cognitive dissonance... whatevers?

“Do you remember?” he asked softly, letting go of the gun so he could take Bucky’s flesh-and-blood hand between both his own. “Are you _trying_ to remember?”

Bucky didn’t stir, but Steve suspected that he was on the right track. After a big fight, Steve wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week while his body healed. This — Bucky passing out — was practically the same thing. Wasn’t it?

“You know,” Steve said, settling comfortably on the floor next to the couch, “if this was a Walt Disney movie, all I’d have to do is tell you the story of how we met, and you’d magically wake up, remembering everything.” He squeezed Bucky’s hand, hoping for any reaction, even a twitch. “I could always give you a kiss, but I’m not sure how much you’d like that. It didn’t bother you, all those dance halls where not everyone in a dress was a dame, but you were never real interested in that. At least, not that you ever told me.”

He laughed softly and leaned against the couch. “I can’t say I wasn’t tempted. Remember how I never had _any_ luck with dames back home? I might’ve had better luck with other men, except...” He shrugged and swallowed, trying to keep his voice light and casual. “Well, I thought about it, but every time I did, it was you. And I wasn’t going to say anything first. Not something that might make you quit me.”

With a quiet sigh, he fell silent. There was no point in dredging up might-have-beens, especially not ones that would’ve almost certainly blown up in his face. He’d kept his mouth shut back then; he’d do the same now. He wanted his Bucky back. His best friend.

Besides, even now, with ratty hair and a scruffy almost-beard, Bucky was handsome as ever. He probably had a girl. Lots of them, if he wanted.

“Okay. So, do I talk more about us?” Steve asked, getting himself back on track. “No. I’m going to wait for you to come out of this, and then we’ll get something to eat. Aren’t you starving?” He made himself let go of Bucky and shifted around so he could keep an eye on the door. The gun wasn’t nearly as comforting to hold as Bucky’s hand, but it was much more practical, and Steve was good at focusing on the practical. He’d spent most of his life not getting what he wanted, so he’d learned to be content with what he could have.

Like Bucky.


	11. Chapter 11

The _hiss_ of metal-on-metal roused Winter from what felt like a near-fatal migraine. His head was pounding, and his first thought was to wonder where the nearest emergency medkit was and if he could make it to an injector without passing out.

His second was to wonder why the sound of a slide being racked didn’t jolt him straight into combat-mode.

He considered sitting up for about half a second before deciding he’d never make it. Instead, he dragged in a breath — and even _that_ hurt his head — and turned enough to look at a now-familiar profile.

“Steve?” It came out a bare whisper, but it was enough to make Steve jerk around, dropping a familiar matte black Skorpion on the floor.

“You’re up?” Steve pushed up onto his knees so he could look down at Winter’s face. Why was he laying on the couch, with Steve on the floor nearby?

He swallowed and took another breath. “What happened?” he asked a little more strongly.

Steve sighed and flattened a hand on Winter’s chest, right over his heart. Even through the T-shirt, the touch felt like fire. “You feeling okay?”

That wasn’t an answer. Winter twisted enough to get an elbow under himself. Braced, he was able to sit half-upright, though the effort cost him. “There a fight?”

“No.” Steve reached past him to move one of the sofa cushions against the arm as a pillow. “Lay back.”

Winter shook his head, which was an even worse mistake. He bit back a groan and unthinkingly grabbed Steve’s shoulder for support. He’d blacked out. He’d been out of cryo too long. He must have had an episode.

“Did I hurt anyone? You?” he asked, forcing himself to let go. There was no visible blood on Steve, but he couldn’t think of any other reason for the armory laid out nearby.

Steve smiled and moved to sit on the coffee table. “You didn’t even try.”

Relieved, Winter let himself lean back into the cushion and closed his eyes. Only then did he notice the warm weight on his forearm. Steve’s hand. When had that happened? And why wasn’t he pulling away from that touch?

“My medical team,” he said, only then remembering that they were at Avengers Tower. It was one thing to wake up on Tony’s jet without anyone attending him, but here he had a team that was trained for just such an emergency. If nothing else, he should’ve woken up in the containment cell.

“You don’t need them.” Steve’s fingers pressed harder, and Winter looked back up at him. “They can’t help you.”

Winter tried to frown, but he couldn’t help the way his lips twitched up in a smile at Steve’s cocky, absolute certainty. “You a doctor now?”

Steve scoffed. “You don’t need a doctor. You need _fewer_ people screwing around inside your head, not more.”

“You don’t know —” _Me,_ Winter almost said, but that wasn’t true. It wasn’t a lie, either. But Steve did know _something_.

“Yeah, Buck. I do.” Steve leaned forward and the earnest, sincere look on his face reached right down into Winter’s core, making him actually _believe_. “I know _you_.”

The whirr of straining servos told Winter he’d clenched his metal fist. He forced himself to straighten his fingers and looked down at his other hand. Relaxed, muscles and joints loose. Was it Steve’s touch, or was his metal arm just malfunctioning from the damage he still hadn’t asked Tony to repair?

“What’s happening to me?” he asked quietly.

Instead of answering right away, Steve took a deep breath. “I think you’re remembering. I think you _need_ to remember, but your...” He shook his head, and a vertical line formed between his brows. Not quite a frown — more like determination, as if he could _make_ Winter remember by sheer force of will alone.

Winter frowned back at him and nearly barked _report_. He caught himself and instead told Steve, “Go on.”

Steve sighed, thumb rubbing circles against Winter’s forearm. “I think whatever they did to you — these _treatments_ — they’re keeping you from remembering. Maybe you can’t get worse that way, but you won’t get better.”

_What the hell do you know, punk?_

The words, whispered in his own voice, crackled in his brain like static. He had no idea where they came from. It was nothing he’d ever say, but the words felt _right_.

“Who were we?”

Steve moved his hand down, closing his fingers around Winter’s. “We were just us,” he said earnestly. “Bucky and Steve. Two guys from Brooklyn who tried to do the right thing.”

The warmth of Steve’s hand felt like a promise — a connection Winter felt with no one else. “Were we partners?”

“Well...” Steve shrugged, though that frown line was back. “Yeah. Yeah, we were.”

Winter turned his hand, looking at Steve’s fingers, searching for any sign of familiarity, but there was nothing. He couldn’t imagine forgetting someone so important, but he also couldn’t imagine _having_ someone like that in his life.

He’d always been alone. He didn’t _want_ anyone in his space, getting too close, actually touching him. His handlers and doctors and teammates had tried to find him temporary partners, but he’d refused every one of them.

This must be why. The same loyalty he had for Unity, for HYDRA, he must have always had for Steve, just without knowing it.

And that explained why he let Steve in here. Why he let Steve handle his weapons and didn’t feel the need to defend himself. Even without knowing who Steve was, his brain _trusted_ him.

Hesitantly, Winter said, “I’ll try to remember.”

Steve’s smile was like the sun coming out. “You’ll get there, Buck. But you’ve got to promise me something.”

“What?”

“No more ‘treatments.’” Steve squeezed his hand. “Those doctors may think they’re helping, but they’re not.”

Winter sighed and sat up a little more. It hurt, but not as badly as a few minutes ago. Quick recovery like that was a good sign. “First, you need to tell me the truth.”

Steve nodded unhesitatingly. “Of course.”

“Are you a traitor?”

Steve looked away, and Winter went cold inside. _No,_ he thought, though he didn’t say it. He couldn’t. Because no matter who Steve was, Winter was loyal to Unity — to HYDRA — first.

“I don’t know,” Steve finally said. He glanced at the weapons, then at Bucky, before looking away again. “Everything I know about this world... Well, it’s kind of obvious it’s not enough. I haven’t even _seen_ this world.”

The weight on Winter’s chest didn’t disappear, but it eased enough for him to take a breath. “What?”

Steve shrugged, and their hands moved with the motion of his shoulder. “Remember I told you I crashed that bomber into the ice?”

“Like —” Winter caught himself before he could say, _cryo_. Even now, with Steve’s loyalties in question, Winter didn’t want to upset him. He’d have to examine this feeling later. “Yes.”

“I was pulled out of the ice seven months ago.” Steve looked over at him, meeting his eyes. “By Brock Rumlow and his... rebels.”

Winter’s inhale was sharp. The lingering traces of the headache disappeared under the crystal clarity of his mission. Rumlow was an enemy he could target with no guilt, no complication at all. He’d already “killed” Rumlow once, even if it hadn’t worked. Doing it again would be as effortless as breathing — and this time, there wouldn’t be any way for that snake to slither out.

“Hang on,” Steve ordered sharply, and Winter blinked at him, startled. “They saved me, Buck. And yeah... they wanted me to fight with them. They told me my country needed me. But in the last seven months, I haven’t seen _anything_ of this world. Just safehouses and cars with dark windows.”

Dissonance crept into the back of Winter’s mind, but now he could see it. Feel it. His loyalty to HYDRA was absolute, and it was screaming at him to eliminate the admitted traitor before him as a threat.

But that wasn’t his _choice_. It was reflex. Instinct. Something he could do because of who he was. And he wouldn’t lose a moment’s sleep, because of how _satisfying_ it had always been, knowing he’d done what was right. That he’d fulfilled his purpose.

He focused on their hands, still joined. The crackle of dissonance grew louder, but he pushed through it. Instead of grabbing for one of the weapons nearby, he said, “Go on.”

“I was telling the truth when I said HYDRA was the enemy. But Peggy and Howard... They were two of the best people I know. And if they believed in HYDRA...” Steve shuddered, hand clenching tight. “Maybe I need to know more.”

Winter swallowed. “You...” He nodded, taking another deep breath, focusing on Steve and not the whispers in the back of his own head. “Okay. But you don’t leave my sight. You’re either in here or with me. If you run, I’ll hunt you, and you won’t get another chance.”

Steve frowned, and his jaw took on a stubborn set, as if he were going to argue. “If I see something I don’t like, don’t expect me to keep my mouth shut about it.”

“I won’t let you break the law,” Winter warned.

“The only laws I break are the ones that shouldn’t be laws in the first place.”

“How come you get to decide?”

“Seems like all too often, the people who make those decisions are only interested in themselves — not the rest of the world.” He met Winter’s eyes and challenged, “Show me this world is different.”

 

~~~

 

Not everything in Bucky’s apartment was on open display. Steve heard a soft _hiss_ and looked up from tying the laces of his borrowed boots to see Bucky standing by the bed, facing the wall. He’d opened a hidden panel, just like the one used by the little robot earlier, but significantly bigger.

Steve jammed his other foot into its boot and walked over, kicking the laces out of the way to keep from tripping. “I’ve seen wall safes hidden behind pictures. Never part of the wall before. Isn’t it hard to find the catch?”

Bucky turned his metal hand over and spread the fingers as much as the damaged plates would allow. “I can feel electromagnetic current. Also minute differences in temperature, pressure, physical imperfections, and vibration, including sound.”

“God. That’s...” Steve let out a breath, looking at the arm in a new light. It was one thing to have a false arm that could be used for physical tasks; the fact that he could _sense_ through it... “It really is a part of you, isn’t it?”

The frown Bucky shot him implied that should be obvious. “Of course it is.” He turned back to the safe and reached for the highest shelf, above a shelf full of metal ammo boxes and a rack of ten or twelve rifles.

“I thought we were going out for food,” Steve said uncertainly, watching Bucky slide a long, narrow briefcase off the shelf. “Is it that dangerous that you need a weapon?”

“Anything can be a weapon, if you’re clever.” Bucky turned and put the briefcase on the nightstand, then touched his metal hand to the wall. The safe closed up, leaving no sign, even to Steve’s eyes, that it was there. “We’re going out incognito. That means” — he opened the briefcase, revealing a shimmering, flesh-colored opera glove that seemed to be made of silk and light — “I need to hide my arm.”

“What _is_ that?” Steve tried to focus on it, but the way the light moved and shifted seemed to repel his gaze. Concentrating on the details actually hurt.

“Extended-use photostatic veil,” Bucky said unhelpfully as he pulled off his black T-shirt. “It’ll tear under rough use, but as long as we’re not fighting, it’ll be fine.” He picked up the glove and worked his fingers down the length, splitting it open.

Technology had come a long way since the Red Skull. “You know, the guy we fought —” Steve said before catching himself. Talking about the past might leave Bucky unconscious again.

Bucky glanced up from working his fingers into the glove. “Who?”

Steve shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.” After a moment, Bucky went back to pulling the glove into place. The hand portion fit well enough, but he had to pinch the edges together to close it up his wrist and arm, like a zipper without the pull tab. “You need help?”

Bucky’s hand stopped moving. Then, hesitantly, he nodded and held out his arm. “You’re not scared to touch me.”

Steve touched the glove, then jerked his hand back at the sharp tingle of electricity. Quickly, before Bucky could think he was scared after all, he took hold of the edges and pinched them together. “Why would I be?” he asked as casually as he could. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

“Did you forget what happened on the ship?” Bucky asked bluntly.

“That was different, Buck.” It took a couple of tries, but Steve finally got the knack of keeping the edges smoothly aligned. The material, whatever it was, had just enough stretch that it fitted tightly over the metal plates. And though the glove looked translucent when it was loose, as soon as it was pulled taut, it turned opaque, hiding any hint of the metal underneath.

Bucky watched him, head tipped just slightly to the side. “Were you always like this?”

“Like what?”

“Crazy.”

Steve laughed and pressed the upper edges of the glove to Bucky’s shoulder. The shimmery material didn’t quite reach his skin, but it stuck to the metal plates. “You preferred calling it ‘stupid,’ but yeah. I guess.”

When Bucky lowered his arm, the glove didn’t fall down. “Well, try to restrain your impulses when we’re out. My publicists will kill me if they find out I made an unplanned public appearance.”

Steve’s momentary joy at Bucky’s easy, unguarded phrasing vanished under his surprise. “Your publicists?”

“Yeah. They have a hard enough time getting me to do scheduled outings,” Bucky said, walking across the apartment to the clothing racks. Steve picked up the discarded T-shirt out of habit and followed. “I don’t usually go out.”

“Not even...” Steve shook his head, frowning at Bucky’s back. The scarring around his shoulder really was terrible. “You used to like going dancing.”

 _“Dancing?”_ Bucky shot him a look of wide-eyed disbelief. “Me?”

Steve didn’t even try to hide his answering grin. “You were pretty good, too. You had girls lining up for a chance at you.”

Bucky took one of those dino-HYDRA shirts off a hanger. “What about you?” he asked, pulling it on.

Steve’s grin faded. _Peggy_. “No. Nobody ever wanted...” He shook his head and crouched down so he could finish tying the laces on his borrowed boot. “I was different back then. Nobody ever wanted me around, except you.”

Frowning, Bucky swept his hand over his too-long hair to pull it back out of his face, and he stared into Steve’s eyes as though trying to read his mind. Then he turned away and went to the bathroom sink, where he opened the cupboard underneath.

So he _did_ own a brush. Steve laughed softly and walked over, watching as Bucky tried to pull the brush through his tangled hair. When he spotted the shirt in Steve’s hand, he said, “Just put it over there, by the wall,” and nodded toward where the robot had come through earlier. It went against everything Steve’s mom had taught him, but he tossed the shirt down.

“We could stop and get a haircut somewhere, if you want,” Steve offered when he got sick of watching Bucky fighting with his hair.

“I can’t.”

When Bucky said nothing else, Steve sighed and asked, “Why not? Is it against the rules?”

Bucky snorted. “Almost. It’s part of my brand.”

Steve blinked. “Huh?”

“The hair, the clothes, even the arm done in silver instead of something more real.” Bucky finally gave up with the brush and crouched down to root through the cupboard again.

“Your publicists?” Steve guessed.

Bucky’s sigh was eloquent.

Steve smiled. “At least you look kind of tough. They put me in blue tights and surrounded me with chorus girls.”

Bucky looked up, eyeing Steve skeptically. “But you were made to _fight_. Weren’t you?” He stood up, pulling his hair back so he could tie it in a short ponytail.

“It’s a long story...” Steve’s breath caught when Bucky turned to face him. With his hair pulled back, he could _almost_ be the man Steve remembered. Quietly, he muttered, “All you need is a shave.”

Frowning, Bucky lifted his hand to rub over his jaw. “I still look too much like me?”

Steve laughed. “No. Not _enough_ like you. You always kept your hair short and neat, combed back,” he said, walking over to Bucky. “Always clean-shaven. You wore the best clothes your family could afford. You always wanted to look your best.”

Slowly, Bucky lowered his hand, looking down at his clothes. In the red dinosaur T-shirt and jeans, with his arm disguised... well, he wasn’t _Steve’s_ Bucky, but he wasn’t the Winter Soldier, either. He looked heartbreakingly nervous, as if hesitant to go out the way he was dressed. And it was all Steve’s fault.

“Come on,” Steve said, wishing he felt comfortable enough to throw an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. But Bucky had flat-out said nobody touched him, and Steve wasn’t about to go pawing at him out of sheer joy of having him alive, against all the odds. So he just smiled and headed for the door, hoping that Bucky wouldn’t feel the need to carry a weapon. They weren’t going out looking for a fight, but for understanding. “Show me your world.”


	12. Chapter 12

“You know what’s the biggest disappointment?” Steve asked before they’d taken two steps away from the alley that led from the Tower’s back entrance to the street.

“Already?” Winter stopped scanning the area for threats, reminding himself he wasn’t on duty (not that it helped) and stared at Steve instead. He was definitely worth staring at, judging by how he turned heads, even on the busy sidewalk of Manhattan.

Especially when he grinned and said, “No flying cars.”

Winter shook his head and went back to walking, over-conscious of how they were drawing stares. Better to blend in with the fast-moving crowd than to stand around gawking. “We already had this talk about you being crazy.”

Steve laughed and elbowed Winter’s metal arm, then jerked back and looked down as if inspecting for damage to the photostatic veil. “Sorry.”

“Relax.” It came out too sharp, bordering on a command. Frustrated with himself, Winter closed the space between them and put his arm around Steve’s waist, rather than stretching the inch to reach his shoulders. Steve went so tense, he almost tripped over his feet, and Winter had to tell himself not to stare. “Steve.”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Steve didn’t seem to know what to do with the arm trapped between their bodies, which meant Winter was making this worse, not better. He let go, and Steve practically jumped away, only to bump into him again a step later.

 _This_ was the soldier who’d almost taken Winter down? He was as uncoordinated as a newborn colt.

Winter finally took his arm to keep him from flailing and knocking out a pedestrian. Very quietly, assuming that Steve’s hearing was as sharp as his own, he muttered, “You’ve never done _any_ covert work, have you?”

Steve shot him a worried look. “I was better at knocking down the front door and blowing up everything in the way,” he answered, barely above a whisper.

“Well, _that_ explains it,” Winter said, managing not to roll his eyes. Barely.

“Explains what?”

“Why _I_ rarely do covert work.” Winter glanced at Steve, who was finally relaxing, though his pulse was racing under the press of Winter’s metal fingers. The stream of biometric data was infuriatingly distracting.

“Huh?”

“I picked up all your bad habits.”

Steve’s whole face lit up, and he laughed, relaxing against Winter’s arm. “Hey. You’re the one who taught _me_ to box. Or tried to.”

It took Winter three or four steps to realize the tight feeling in his chest was pride. Going up against Steve had been the first time in Winter’s memory that one single opponent had given him a legitimate challenge.

 _I did that,_ he thought, glancing sidelong at Steve, assessing him the way he had on the ship — as a threat to be analyzed. Now that he wasn’t distracted by flying cars and whatever other madness was in his head, he walked with balance and grace, his steps strong, radiating self-assurance and power.

“We can try again,” Winter offered, letting the flow of the crowd choose their direction. He had no particular destination in mind, except that the restaurants near Avengers Tower were all off-limits. Too much chance of Avengers groupies camping out there in hopes of catching sight of one of them.

“Boxing?” Steve’s grin returned, this time with a fierce edge. “You sure that’s what you want? I already kicked your ass once.”

Winter laughed. “Which of us ended up captured?” he countered, pulling Steve’s arm closer, so it was pressed up against his side. Like Winter, Steve’s body temperature ran a half-degree higher than normal. The warmth of his presence was a comfort, now that Winter’s brain had decided he wasn’t a threat.

“You _electrocuted_ —”

“Quiet,” Winter whispered, squeezing his arm in warning. The last thing he wanted was some well-meaning citizen sending a cop over to ask awkward questions.

Steve huffed, trying to frown, though his eyes were bright and his lips kept twitching up. “You electrocuted me,” he whispered back, nudging Winter’s ribs. “That’s not boxing.”

Winter shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Steve looked at him, eyebrows raised. Then, with a sly sort of smile, he asked, “You want to box or _fight_?”

“Under what rules?” Winter asked carefully, trying to rein in his sudden interest. Rules surrounded his every interaction with people — fragile, breakable people. But Steve wasn’t fragile.

“I don’t want to hurt you —”

Winter sighed. “Steve —”

“But,” Steve interrupted, “when you started teaching me, you were holding back. Then I asked you not to, and you didn’t, even though you knocked me out for twenty minutes with the next punch.”

Startled, Winter asked, “I did?” He could hardly imagine Steve being _that_ fragile. Winter hadn’t held back at all on the ship.

Steve nodded. “And you did it again the next day. But by day three, I figured out how to duck about half the time. You never held back again.”

“There’s only so much a person can learn, if you don’t eventually go all-out. That’s how they die in the field.”

“Right.” Steve looked over at Winter again. “So while I don’t _want_ to hurt you, I think you’re the only fair fight I’m going to get here. No permanent injury. No other rules,” he offered.

Winter’s grin was absolutely inappropriate for being in public, but he couldn’t hide it. “Last time I tried that, I wrecked four robots and the training gym.”

Steve shrugged. “Isn’t Tony rich?”

Winter huffed. “Very.”

“Then he can afford to rebuild after.”

 

~~~

 

Steve hadn’t been entirely truthful. He _had_ done undercover work — one single mission in Nazi Germany, in which Steve had ended up sneaking into a dinner party at a Nazi officer’s palatial estate so he could break into a desk and steal battle plans. It was his first and only real glimpse of life behind Nazi lines, other than the time he’d spent in occupied France. And in both places, he’d noticed one thing: too many watchful eyes. Uniformed soldiers walking the street in pairs or squads. Guards wandering the grounds, rifles at the ready. Sharp-eyed informants lurking on every street-corner, just waiting to report any wrongdoing.

He stared out the window at the sidewalk across the street, just like he’d been staring on and off for the twenty-five minutes they’d been seated at the dinner table, and he’d seen one cop. _One_.

He was looking so hard that it took Bucky muttering, “Steve, Steve, _Steve_ ,” for him to turn away before the waiter — _server_ , Bucky had called him — could set down two bowls of what looked like “everything stew” but smelled like a piece of heaven.

“Thanks,” Steve said, stomach rumbling embarrassingly loud, even though he and Bucky had already demolished about fifty crawfish between them. The last day or so had been hell on them both.

After the waiter left, Bucky asked, “You see a threat out there?”

Steve sighed, hearing in his memory Bucky asking if there was a pretty girl out there. But now, he was mission-focused, even at dinner. “No. It’s fine,” Steve said, picking up the spoon that came with the stew. “I just... I figured there’d be more police or soldiers.”

Bucky shook his head, taking a drink of his beer before asking, “Why? There aren’t any active high priority threats for this region.”

Rumlow’s warnings echoed in Steve’s memory. “What about surveillance?”

Bucky leaned in, scooping up some of the stew, and more quietly said, “Traffic cameras at dangerous intersections. Banks have cameras on the cash machines. Shops have private surveillance inside or outside, depending on their insurance. Secure buildings have cameras —”

“Wait, wait,” Steve interrupted, shaking his head. “More than just cameras. What about monitoring _people?_ ”

Bucky tipped his head, frowning in that way that seemed so common these days, when he barely ever used to frown before the war. It made Steve feel guilty for a moment. “You mean Project Insight?” he asked, no longer whispering quite so carefully.

“Insight?” Steve asked, remembering the raid on the data center.

“It monitors for anti-Unity activity.” Bucky scooped up some more of the soup. “Keywords in communications, purchases of things that could be used for improvised weapons, suspicious or illegal credit transfers, that sort of thing. The data is sent to Insight Data Aggregation facilities for automatic processing. Then investigative teams follow up to get a human perspective. Most computers can only go so far.”

That... didn’t sound so bad. But still, Steve tapped his spoon on the bowl, saying, “But the government is watching _everyone_. Checkpoints. Travel papers —”

“For quarantine or hazard zones?” Bucky asked, looking positively baffled now. “Or for secure government installations?”

“For —” Steve shook his head, wondering if they were talking about two different things. “For travel between cities.”

“Are we still talking about _now_ or” — Bucky waved his soup spoon — “back then?”

Steve stabbed his spoon into his soup, which wasn’t as nearly as satisfying as it could’ve been with a fork and a good thick steak. Which of them was lying? Bucky or Rumlow? Or did Bucky not have all the information? Steve knew all too well how lies and deceit could grow into such thick layers that nobody had the whole picture.

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted, finally tasting the soup. It was rich and spicy as hell, and he could just picture the argument the Commandos would’ve had over it, with Dum Dum complaining it was too spicy, Jones and Dernier trying to improve it, and Morita and Falsworth stealing seconds and thirds before anyone else finished their first bowl.

“Steve?”

He looked up and saw Bucky watching him. “Sorry.” He managed a smile and shook his head. “Lost in thought.”

“About what?”

Steve opened his mouth to answer before realizing what a spectacularly bad idea that would be. Just _mentioning_ the past was enough to make Bucky pass out. If it happened in public, while he was in disguise, what would happen? It’d take a doctor about three seconds to realize the arm under that electric disguise was metal. And remembering what Bucky had said about his publicist being upset at an “unscheduled appearance”... how likely was it that some _other_ government type would be even more unhappy?

So he smiled his false stage-smile and shook his head, saying, “It’s a lot to take in. After seven months of being in hiding...”

Bucky’s eyes went flinty — something Steve had only seen here, in this new world. He didn’t immediately answer. He looked down, scraping the spoon through his bowl. As the seconds passed, Steve wondered if he hadn’t gone a step too far, bringing up his association with Rumlow and his “traitors.”

But then Bucky looked back up, meeting Steve’s eyes across the table, and asked, “We’re partners?”

 _Huh?_ Steve blinked a couple of times, trying to find some hidden meaning in the question. Why was Bucky bringing _that_ up now?

He had no answers, though, so he finally shrugged and said, “Yeah. Of course.”

“All right.” Bucky stopped playing with his food and said, “Decide what you want to see, and we’ll go there. Anywhere in the world.”

Steve thought about the Carter Museum — in London, wasn’t it? — but that would open up too many questions. Why did he want to know more about Peggy? Who was she to him? It hurt too much to think about her.

“I want to go home. To Brooklyn.” It slipped out before Steve remembered what Bucky had said before — that Brooklyn didn’t exist.

Bucky nodded slowly, his eyes going distant. “Do you get sick? Ever?”

“Not since...” Steve answered before realizing why Bucky was asking. “It’s really still dangerous there?”

“Not for me.” Bucky shrugged. “Or for you, I suppose. We can go whenever you want.”

Steve nodded, swallowing down a few spoonfuls of his soup without really tasting it. He’d lost his whole world — even, in a way, Bucky. He wasn’t sure he could stand losing his home, too, but now that he knew... he needed to see the proof. He needed to walk the old streets and see the old buildings, maybe visit the cemetery. See his parents one last time.

He needed to see proof of what had happened, and Bucky... maybe it would help him remember where he’d come from.

 

~~~

 

The advantage of operating in Manhattan was easy access to Tony’s immense resource pool. One phone call to JARVIS provided a vehicle and no awkward questions. After settling the bill with a credit card under an alias, Winter just had to lead Steve out of the restaurant, take the keys from the waiting driver, and they were set.

“Does the subway not run anymore?” Steve asked as Winter pulled the SUV away from the curb.

“Not to the island. Restricted access, remember?” At the next red light, Winter twisted to look into the back seat, where he spotted the gear bag JARVIS had promised to deliver. “Get that.”

Steve reached past the center console and picked up the bag one-handed. Effortlessly, Winter noted. When the contents rattled, Steve asked, “Are we expecting trouble?”

“There may be scavengers. Someone always thinks they can slip through and find something valuable to sell.” Winter shrugged, looking back at the road as traffic got moving again, if ten kph could be considered moving. He _hated_ driving in Manhattan, but he didn’t like anyone else driving for him. “The rest of the gear is more important.”

Frowning, Steve unzipped the bag and started emptying the contents. Two armored leather jackets, shooting gloves with padding over the knuckles, two submachine guns, assorted knives, and two small, lightweight cases with their electronics.

“Open one of the cases,” Winter said, keeping one eye on the road. “Power pack, earwig, filtration mask, tac goggles. It’s my backup kit, but the calibration should be good enough for you, if your vision is anything like mine.”

Steve picked up the matte black mask and turned it over, examining the inside. Tony had developed a filtration media used in thin layers, reducing the bulk of the old gas masks and respirators Winter had used during the eighties. The electronics, including the mic pickup, were modular, allowing for quick field replacement.

“The goggles,” Winter prompted, reaching over to take them out of the case. “Plug them into the power pack and try them on.”

“You _sure_ we’re not going into combat?” Steve asked as he sorted out the wires.

Winter hid a grin. He was used to Tony’s brand of entertainment, which usually involved too much alcohol and too many explosions. Steve was just... _fun_. “Are you _hoping_ for a fight?”

“I don’t go looking for fights,” Steve said, smile fading. “I just end them.”

Winter laughed quietly. “That sounds like something I’d say.” Apparently they really were partners after all.

 

~~~

 

“My God,” Steve whispered, turning to look out the window at the empty concrete tunnel wall. An illusory targeting reticle hung in the air, slithering into a recessed doorway, then back out on the other side. A numeric display at the edge of his peripheral vision flickered, constantly updating with range to the target.

“Go over the controls again,” Bucky said, his voice flat and commanding. As soon as they’d entered the tunnel, his mood had shifted. At dinner, he’d been close to Steve’s old Bucky. Now, though... all Steve could see in him was the Winter Soldier.

“All long blinks are a half-second to a second and a half,” Steve quoted. “Right long blink for enhanced low-light, left long blink for thermal, long blink with both eyes to reset to normal light.”

“Practice switching,” Bucky said. “And be careful with enhanced low-light. The lenses will compensate for a high light differential, but you can still be blinded.”

“Copy that.” Steve switched between modes, getting a feel for just how long a blink was necessary. It was awkward but better than depending on having a free hand to switch modes. “Just how common are these?”

“They’re currently too expensive for general use. This is from my personal kit.” Bucky glanced over at him. His face was ghostly pale in enhanced-mode, and Steve quickly switched back to normal.

“This isn’t what you were wearing on the ship. There was no power cable.”

Bucky shook his head. “Those just had low-light enhancement and glare protection, so the batteries were built into the frame. And the mask was just armor. Leave the goggles on. Put on the mask. It’s got a pressure-closure at the back of the neck.”

It took Steve a couple of seconds to get up the guts to lift the mask to his face. He wasn’t _scared_ , precisely, but he remembered the gas mask drills. The photographs of victims. The horrible way his father had died from exposure to mustard gas.

Steve’s first exhale sent heat washing over his face. He closed his eyes, willing his heart to calm the hell down, and slid his hands back to close the mask in place. The frame of the mask was hard plastic pressing against his jaw and over the bridge of his nose. Around his throat, the fabric was stretchy. Suffocating.

He fought to take his next breath, but his chest felt heavy. For twenty-five years, Steve had fought against his own body, against lungs that didn’t work and a heart that didn’t beat right. His own body had tried to kill him — and now, it felt like that was happening all over again.

The world around him lurched. Everything inside him screamed to get the mask off, but he forced his hands to fall to his lap. He could do this. _He could do this_.

His wrist went cold as something pressed to the back of his neck. He heard a tearing sound, and then wonderful, cool air rushed over his face. He dragged in a breath and opened his eyes, flinching at the sight of the floating reticle glowing blue against the darkness.

_Goggles. Mask._

His hand was shaking when he went to pull the off the goggles. When he let go of them, they bounced off his knee and hung by the electrical cable running to the power pack on his lap.

“Steve.”

Bucky’s voice, calm and rock-steady. Still gasping in deep breaths, Steve looked over at him. Without the goggles, he was just a shadow. They were still in the tunnel, stopped in the middle of the road.

“I’m all right,” Steve said roughly. Bucky had twisted around, and his metal hand was wrapped around Steve’s left wrist, fingers over his pulse. “I’m okay.”

“What happened? Was there a malfunction?”

Steve’s laugh bordered on hysterical. He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his chest out of habit, though he knew it didn’t help. It had never helped. “I had asthma. Before the serum. It almost killed me a few times.”

The hand on the back of his neck went tight. Secure. Warm and comforting. “Do you need a medic now?”

“No.” This time, Steve’s laugh was a little more natural. He smiled at Bucky. “I’m fine now. I just... remembered. Do I _need_ the mask?”

“How sensitive are you to breathing high-particulate air?”

Steve shook his head, looking down at the mask, then at Bucky’s hand, metal plates hidden away. “No idea. You? We got almost the same serum...”

Bucky pulled his hand from the back of Steve’s neck so he could pick up the dropped mask. “You won’t be operating efficiently without this. Can you wear it, or do you need help?”

“Help?” Steve asked with a faint laugh. Every time he’d had an asthma attack, Bucky had tried to help, but there was nothing anyone could do. Now, Steve couldn’t imagine what Bucky could do against an attack that wasn’t even real. “How?”

“I can _make_ you wear it.”

Steve’s amusement burned up in a rush of anger. “What?”

In the darkness, even Steve’s sharper-than human vision couldn’t pick out the details of Bucky’s expression. “I had... trouble with the mask. They made me wear it until I settled.”

Steve’s fists clenched. “They _made_ you. _They_ —”

Bucky shrugged stiffly. “If you can’t fight against something, you have to get used to it.”

Horror stole Steve’s voice for a moment. He hit the seat belt release so he could turn and face Bucky, cupping his jaw with one hand. “No. Bucky, that’s — that’s not _right_.”

“It’s efficient. And it’s safer for our —” Bucky cut off, and Steve felt him go tense. “For people around us.”

“‘For our’ what?” Steve asked quietly.

“Handlers.” Bucky took a breath. “It was before Unity. Before Howard found me.”

“Oh my God,” Steve whispered, sliding his hand to the back of Bucky’s head to pull him close. He rested his forehead against Bucky’s, getting as close as he could with the damned center console in the way. “Bucky...”

Bucky shook his head just a little bit, not enough to pull away. “ _This_ mask is useful. It’s better this —”

“I swear,” Steve interrupted in a rough whisper, “if you tell me what they did was a _good thing_ , I’m going to break something.” For seventy years, he hadn’t been around to protect Bucky, but that all changed now.

Bucky sighed quietly. His thumb slipped around the back of Steve’s wrist. “It worked. That’s all that matters.”

“You’re wrong.” Steve lifted his head, and this close, he could just barely make out the blue of Bucky’s eyes. “Nobody’s ever going to force you to do anything you don’t want. Never again.”

Bucky smiled faintly. “Unity’s first principle states that no citizen may interfere with another citizen’s free will.”

Semantics. Steve wanted to make Bucky understand — wanted to find every bastard who’d ever “made” Bucky do _anything_ — but this wasn’t a problem he could solve with reckless courage. He combed his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and he realized that right now, right this instant, all he had to do was lean just an inch closer to kiss Bucky. His best friend, the man he’d loved since they were both children.

But that had never been their relationship. Bucky had never _hinted_ at liking men that way, even though it was all over the neighborhood where they’d grown up. So Steve sat back, saying, “Yeah, well... I’m not going to let anyone even try.”

Bucky let go of Steve’s wrist. The loss of his cold metal touch left Steve shivering. “Are you going to wear the mask, or do we need to figure something else out?” Bucky asked, putting the truck back in gear.

Sighing to himself, Steve picked up the mask. Just looking at it made his chest go tight, but he nodded. He’d been willing to walk alone behind enemy lines for Bucky. He could do this. “I’ll be fine,” he said, sorting out the cables that had gotten tangled. “I’ll wear it.”


	13. Chapter 13

The Queens Contagion Containment Checkpoint — called QC3 by everyone who wasn’t a bureaucrat — was a windowless fortress at the end of the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. Winter had been there precisely once, for a security review, after it had been opened. Back then, it had given him a chill he couldn’t explain, and he’d sworn never to return unless there was a crisis.

Apparently keeping Steve happy was just as high a priority for Winter as a contagion breakout.

Winter stopped the SUV outside the secure entry so he could take off his seatbelt and carefully strip the photostatic veil off his arm. Routing the power pack wires from the back of his neck to his waist was always awkward without help, but he’d gotten used to it. He didn’t even think to offer assistance until he saw Steve struggling.

“I got it.” Winter reached over the gear piled between them and got the wire fed down the back of Steve’s shirt. Steve’s pulse had settled down from his earlier panic over the mask, but it picked back up again. And Winter felt his own heart rate kick up a few bpm, which was... interesting.

But now wasn’t the time to get distracted. He tugged the wire into place and left the ends where Steve could reach them, then went back to his own side of the SUV.

He wrapped the tac belt around his waist, settling the knives at his back and the power pack off to one side. Then he picked up the mask and looked at Steve.

“You sure you can function in the mask?”

Steve looked at the mask in Winter’s hand, then picked up his. “Yeah.” He didn’t brace himself or take an exaggerated deep breath. He just set the mask over his face and began working at the back closure. The only sign of tension was in the way his shoulder muscles bunched.

He wasn’t panicking, though, so Winter got his own mask in place. “When it’s not powered, the breathing vents are open,” he said as he tightened the closures at the back of his neck. The plastic was molded to the shape of his face, trapping his jaw, keeping him from opening his mouth more than two centimeters.

Static flashed in his brain. He remembered the taste of blood. The wet, rubbery feel of torn flesh in his teeth. The sound of screaming.

His fingers were still moving automatically, finishing with his gear. When he snapped the power cable into place, the vents cycled closed, then open. The soft hiss, too quiet for normal humans to hear, got him back on track. “When the vents are closed, air intake is through the filtration media,” he explained. “Manual override is below the left ear.”

“Understood,” Steve said, his voice muffled. Tight. There was a knack to talking in the mask, one Winter had developed only in the last thirty-odd years. Before then, he hadn’t needed to speak at all.

Too late, he realized that Steve might not be comfortable in a mask shaped for someone else. But Steve didn’t complain. He just nodded, then tilted his head so he could hook up the power cable.

“Put on the goggles. Use the secondary power cable so you can take off the mask if you need.” Winter reached into Steve’s equipment case and pulled out the earwig so he could check the power charge and channel settings. Then he handed it over and fitted his own earwig in place. Once Steve did the same, Winter said, “Comms check.”

“Wow. That’s... clear,” Steve said, settling the goggles in place before looking over at Winter. Even with his face and eyes hidden, Winter could see he was impressed.

“Stark Industries has an entertainment technology division. Tony stole the design from them.”

Steve’s laugh was soft and breathy. “Useful. Is there a tracker in any of this gear, in case we get separated?”

The mask hid Winter’s smile. “Feel the outside of the earwig. There’s a microswitch at the top. Move it forward, and it’ll give you a ranging beep. The closer you get to anyone else on this channel, the higher the pitch.”

“Okay.” Steve picked up one of the two soft gun cases and unzipped it. Winter took the other case and got his weapon out, though he kept glancing over at Steve. He’d seemed safe enough with the Skorpion, but these guns were heavier, with more powerful loads, and fresh out of the Stark Industries testing lab. Winter had done the initial field testing and liked the model so much he’d added it to his standard kit.

The modifications didn’t seem to throw Steve off at all, though. He opened the breech to see if it was loaded, checked the hard sights, then slotted a magazine in place and chambered a round. Not once did his hands hesitate.

Good enough.

Winter readied his own weapon, packed away the spare magazines, and hung his goggles from a strap on his belt for now. He pulled on the jacket, leaving it unzipped, and asked, “Ready?”

Steve nodded. “What about your goggles?”

“Security protocols need a retinal scan to get in,” Winter said, shifting into drive. “Once we’re in, let me do all the talking.”

Steve’s huff was distorted by his mask. “You said that every time we went on a date, too.”

Winter laughed quietly. “No surprise there,” he muttered. He much preferred planning and commanding operations than taking orders, so why should dating be any different?

The guards at the entry checkpoint were sharp, following protocols exactly. It was gratifying to see, though not wholly unexpected. Their ID check was thorough, and they even called the watch officer to verify that Winter had authorization to escort an unnamed guest through the facility and into the contagion zone.

It took ten minutes for them to gain entry into the parking garage. There, Winter got out, stretching his legs, then picked up his gun for one last check. Steve came around the front of the SUV, now wearing his jacket, fussing with how the gun sling laid across his chest.

“I’m guessing you don’t let other people do gear checks for you, huh?” he asked.

Winter hadn’t even thought of it. He ducked into his sling and pulled the goggles off his belt, saying, “Not normally, but go ahead.”

He couldn’t see Steve’s expression, but he suspected Steve was pleased. Steve moved around to stand behind him — never a comfortable position, but one he forced himself to tolerate. A couple of sharp tugs on the belt, a check of the power connections, and Steve came back around. “The mask and the goggles,” he said, holding out his arms as if expecting Winter to return the favor. “You... implied they’ve been part of your gear for a while.”

Winter nodded, dredging up half-remembered times when he’d been tasked with training combatants. He checked the angle of the knives on Steve’s belt for a quick draw, saying, “At least fifty years. I don’t remember exactly when.”

“And you have a publicist.”

Winter leaned around to look at Steve’s hidden face. “Yeah. Are you looking for an autograph or something?”

Steve choked out a laugh, and Winter went back to checking his gear, taking note of how he’d arranged the ammo pouches on his belt. “You’re famous. Not exactly covert.”

“I think I used to be covert. But not since Howard Stark, no.” Winter tugged on the power pack, making sure it was seated firmly in its holder, then snugged down the strap holding it in place. “Why?”

Steve shook his head. “Someone told me they didn’t know who you were. That you’d only showed up a couple of years ago.”

“Then ‘someone’ has been living under a rock. Two years ago, they had me doing talk shows.”

Instead of laughing at the thought, Steve asked, “Talk shows?” as if he’d never heard of them.

Winter smirked behind his mask. “Television programs. You sit on a couch and interviewers ask you intrusive questions, and you try not to shoot them for being stupid.”

Steve looked back over his shoulder. “Really?”

“It’s a terrible idea. I told them that, only they didn’t listen.” Winter moved around in front of Steve and took a closer look at the weapon. “You comfortable with that? I can probably get you a sidearm, if you want.”

“It’s fine. How likely is it that we’re going to be shooting anyone tonight?”

“Not very,” Winter admitted, settling the goggles in place. He got the power hooked up, then blinked through the different modes. “Just don’t let your guard down.”

Steve pulled on his gloves and nodded. “I never do.”

 

~~~

 

The building was huge and sterile, with white walls and white tile floors and over-bright lights that even the goggles had trouble dimming. No one was in the hallway, but Steve could hear them pressed up against doors or whispering behind interior windows. _Winter_ , they said. _The Winter Soldier._ And also, _Who’s with him?_ and _Another one?_

Steve supposed they were a matched set, anonymous in their masks and goggles and jackets. With Bucky’s arm hidden by his jacket and glove, their only difference was their hair.

Trusting the mic to pick up a whisper, Steve asked, “Are we starting rumors?”

Bucky glanced his way. “Probably. Do you mind?”

Steve forced himself to relax and shrug. “At least this time I’m not in tights.”

Bucky laughed. “You’re going to have to tell me more about this outfit of yours.”

“One day,” he lied, thinking that might be one thing he’d let stay in the past.

But Bucky had liked the outfit. He’d said so just a year ago, in Steve’s memory. And if it would help Bucky remember, Steve would do a hell of a lot more than wear tights.

At the far end of the hallway, they reached another security checkpoint, this one similar to the airlock outside Bucky’s containment cell. Posters on the walls warned about “HAZMAT gear” and “required self-contained breathing equipment.” A sign above a mirror warned people to “Check Your Gear!”

Steve glanced at Bucky — he didn’t think their combat gear qualified — but Bucky had frozen in his tracks, masked face turned toward the mirror.

 _Mirrors are classified,_ Steve recalled, but before he could ask, Bucky got moving again, heading into the airlock.

 _Later,_ Steve told himself, following.

“Citiz— Uh, Agent. Agents.” The voice came from a speaker mounted on the wall of the guard box to one side, where two shocked-looking soldier-types were gawking at them through thick glass. “Your gear —”

“Is sufficient,” Bucky said, never pausing in his walk across the airlock. Steve glanced over at the guards, but they were speaking in hushed whispers, and the glass was too thick for him to hear what they were saying when their microphone was off.

“Are they worried we’ll get sick or carry something back in with us?” he asked softly, over comms.

“That we’ll get sick.” Bucky shrugged, putting his hands on the next set of doors — steel, windowless, like the doors to a prison. “We won’t.”

Steve rarely had second thoughts about anything, but he had them now, looking at those doors. It wasn’t fear of getting sick, even though he still had nightmares of asthma, of chest pain, of all the illnesses he’d suffered as a child.

“Buck —”

But Bucky was already pushing the doors open, and a part of Steve automatically braced for the sights and smells that were engraved in his memory, even though he _knew_ this wasn’t 1944 and that Brooklyn — his Brooklyn — was long since gone. Besides, this was technically Queens, he reminded himself pragmatically.

He followed Bucky one single step into the open air beyond the containment building, then stopped in his tracks. “Oh, shit,” he whispered, reaching out to grab hold of Bucky’s sleeve as the world around him wobbled.

Before him stretched a bleak landscape of rubble. Weeds and brush pushed up through cracks in the destroyed streets. He blinked to thermal, and his goggles reported a near-uniform temperature, without a hint of living warmth.

“Steve.”

“Bucky...” He looked over and saw Bucky as a blaze of heat before remembering to blink his goggles back to normal light. _“What happened?”_

“The fastest way to contain the threat was to firebomb the island.”

“How —” Steve’s hand clenched, nearly tearing the reinforced leather. “How many people?”

“The initial containment infected just over two hundred fifty thousand, with ninety percent mortality,” Bucky answered, his voice horribly without inflection. Steve had to have heard that wrong, but he couldn’t find the words to ask for clarification, and Bucky was still talking. “Subsequent infections had a significantly lower mortality rate, once we had a treatment protocol, but victims were left scarred and infertile. There hasn’t been an infection in four years, since we increased security.”

 _“Two hundred fifty thousand.”_ Steve dragged in a breath. “And... the fires? How many more?”

Bucky’s head turned, and Steve wanted nothing more than to rip off Bucky’s mask and goggles, to see his face. His eyes. His _expression_. “What?”

“How many did —” _How many did you kill?_ Steve thought, swallowing against the gorge rising up inside his throat. “How many died in the fires?”

“Twelve. Six when a helitack crashed, four who got trapped in a building they were demolishing, two from smoke inhalation.”

Steve blinked a couple of times, staring into Bucky’s goggles. “You said — You said a quarter million people died.”

Bucky shook his head, sounding puzzled when he answered, “That was after the pathogen was released. We executed the bioterrorists, evacuated the civilians, and then tried to contain the hazardous area, but there were too many vectors: insects, pollen, birds, rats. This was at the height of the war, so we didn’t have the resources to be more delicate. Fire was the next best option.”

Steve’s exhale bordered on a hysterical laugh. He looked back out at the buildings, blinking to enhanced low-light vision. He could see the old burn marks, places where metal had softened and melted, but...

No cars. No bodies or skeletons. No sign that anyone had _died_ here.

“Steve.”

He turned back to Bucky. “Yeah?”

“Did you think,” Bucky asked slowly, “that we... what? Put a perimeter around the island and then burned _the people_?”

Steve flinched guiltily. “I just...” He trailed off, shaking his head, even though the answer was _yes_. Because for seven months, he’d heard stories of the horrors of living under HYDRA’s fist. Stories of what they did to prisoners for information. Of how oppressed the people of Unity were. How even a hint of discontent was stamped out ruthlessly.

Without another word, Bucky turned away, heading down the wide ramp to the broken street beyond. The low-light goggles picked out tire tracks cut through the weeds, leading to one side of the building, where there was a heavy-looking metal garage door.

Bucky’s boots crunched over pebbles and dry grass, and Steve broke into a jog to catch up. He stopped when they were two feet apart, but it felt like miles.

“Bucky —”

“What did you want to see?” Bucky asked, still in that flat, inflectionless tone. “Do we need a vehicle?”

“No.” Steve fussed with the weapon slung across his chest, needing something to occupy his hands. “I’m sorry.”

“Do we need a vehicle?” Bucky repeated.

Steve sighed in frustration and walked away, looking around at the ruins. Part of him wanted to just keep walking and not stop, to run from this terrible, confusing world that wasn’t his. Part of him wanted to just lie down and not get up again, because he was tired of everything. Tired of fighting, tired of being alone, tired of not having Bucky even when he was _right there_.

“War does things to people,” he said softly, knowing comms would have no trouble picking up his words. “I saw a lot of good men do horrible things, because it was that or die. Or lose.”

“I know.”

Steve turned back, looking across the broken road at Bucky. No. At the Winter Soldier, because that was who stood there, from his goggles to his boots, hands holding the rifle at rest but ready to shoot at a moment’s notice.

“I never wanted to kill anyone,” Steve said softly, remembering Dr. Erskine’s question. And he’d answered truthfully. He _hadn’t_ wanted to kill anyone — not even the men who surely deserved to die — because that wasn’t his place. It wasn’t his decision to make.

“I had to.”

Steve frowned, watching Bucky, waiting, but that was all. _I had to_.

“You had to what?” he finally asked.

“I killed two hundred and twenty-two people before Howard Stark found me.”

Steve’s gut went cold. “What?” he asked softly, starting back across the street.

“It’s an approximate count. Forty-two verified assassinations. Another hundred sixty-seven verified kills from incidents I arranged. The closest I can estimate is that thirteen more later died from wounds or shock, but I’m not certain.”

“For —” Steve stopped a few feet away. “For HYDRA?”

Bucky shrugged. “For my handlers. That was before Howard found me.”

“Bucky —”

“I killed four of his soldiers,” Bucky went on. “Six scientists the first time, three the next. That was before they figured out how to break my programming.”

 _“Bucky!”_ Steve let his gun hang on its sling so he could grab Bucky’s shoulders. He wanted to rip off that mask, see his best friend’s face, but the thought also terrified him. Bucky’s voice was matter-of-fact, as bland as if he were delivering an inventory report, and Steve didn’t think he’d be able to look into eyes that were equally dead. Not here, not when they were talking about this.

“Afterward,” Bucky continued relentlessly, “I kept killing for HYDRA, because it’s what I do. It’s as easy for me as breathing, and it had to be done. But _those_ kills were enemy combatants. Traitors. Threats to Unity. They were _my_ choice — not just because I’m good at it, but because if _I_ killed them, someone else wouldn’t have to.”

Every one of Bucky’s words hit Steve like a punch, nearly buckling his knees with guilt. “I —”

“And I _thought_ I killed your friend Rumlow,” Bucky said, and he moved so fast, so suddenly, that Steve didn’t even have time to blink before Bucky wrenched the gun off its sling, breaking the straps with his metal hand. A hard shove sent Steve reeling away, barely catching his balance on the broken pavement.

He stopped himself from drawing a knife because it was pointless. They were too equally matched in speed and strength. All Bucky had to do was pull the trigger, and the fight would be over before it started.

“Now come on, Buck...” Steve raised his empty hands, trying to look like the harmless man he’d been not two years ago, in his memory.

“You never did tell me what you were doing with him,” Bucky said, standing his ground as he slowly lifted the gun. Steve’s heart lodged in his throat, not in fear of being shot but in fear of _Bucky_ shooting him.

“He found me,” Steve said slowly, trying to be calm, though his voice shook. “He pulled me out of the ice. He was right there when I woke up. He told me everything I knew about this world.”

“You were quick to throw Howard Stark’s name around,” Bucky challenged, looking at Steve across leveled sights. “Good strategy.”

“And even after that, you told JARVIS to watch me.” Steve searched for any reaction, but the damned mask and goggles and even the metal arm all conspired to keep Bucky from so much as twitching.

“You said we were partners,” Bucky accused, and for the first time, Steve heard _something_ in his voice, the least little catch.

“We are. We always were,” Steve said as sincerely as he could. “Bucky, that day Rumlow showed me a picture of you and said nobody knew who you were or where you’d come from — if he’d said you were _you_...”

“But I’m not, am I?”

Steve flinched again, lowering his hands a few inches before he spotted Bucky’s finger tightening against the trigger. He froze, saying, “You are. Somewhere inside, you _are_ Sergeant James Barnes of the 107th.”

The muzzle of the gun wavered.

Steve took a quick breath so he could continue, “You once told me you wouldn’t follow Captain America into battle. But ‘that little guy from Brooklyn’ — that’s who you said you’d follow. That’s me, Bucky.”

When the gun twitched again, losing its perfect aim, Steve took a chance. He slowly reached up and pushed the goggles up to his forehead. Then he reached back and carefully ripped open the mask closure at the back of his neck. He didn’t let the mask fall only because he didn’t want the sound to startle Bucky into pulling the trigger.

“You’re my best friend,” Steve said, letting the mask dangle from its power cable. The air tasted like ash and soot — like Brooklyn. “When we were running out of the burning factory, you made it across a beam, but then it collapsed. I told you to run, and you wouldn’t. You said, ‘Not without you.’ That’s how it’s _always been_ , Bucky. You and me, we’re in this together.”

The earwig picked up the sound of Bucky’s exhale, rough and harsh, almost a grunt of pain. The muzzle of the gun dropped two inches, and Steve took a step forward. Then another.

“That’s never changed,” he continued, letting his voice go soft as he got closer, close enough that the muzzle pressed against his chest. “It’s like you told me the day I buried my mom. You asked me to move in with you, and you said it’s you and me, till the end of the line. It still is.”

Bucky lowered the weapon, catching it by the torn strap before it could hit the ground. He whispered something in what sounded like Russian — a question Steve didn’t understand.

Carefully, Steve reached out and took hold of the gun. When the strap slipped out of Bucky’s fingers, Steve tucked the gun under his left arm.

“Bucky?” he asked quietly. “You with me?”

Bucky’s answering nod was jerky, barely there, but it was something. At least he wasn’t passing out.

Steve looked back at the building. He didn’t see any windows, but there were cameras everywhere. There was a chance _someone_ had seen everything, though he suspected their comms were secure from eavesdroppers.

Still, this was private. And Bucky — the Winter Soldier — had a reputation to maintain. Steve slid his goggles back down and looked around until he spotted a pile of rubble that looked like it offered shelter.

“Come with me, Buck.” Steve touched Bucky’s right arm and pressed gently to get him moving. Without saying a word, Bucky walked at his side, moving gracefully over the gravel and weeds, so silently that a shiver crawled down Steve’s spine.

The building had collapsed when its supporting steel girders had melted from the heat of the firebombing. The brick wall had collapsed in on itself, forming a little cave, barely big enough to hide them from the sky. Steve wanted to pull Bucky down with him, but he didn’t dare — not when one firm touch or too-sharp word might set off his killing rage. Or worse, make him pass out.

So instead, Steve let go of his arm and sat down, trying to ignore the way adrenaline made his muscles tremble. He pushed his goggles up and looked into Bucky’s masked face, saying, “Sit with me.”

A few seconds passed, leaving Steve breathless, growing more worried as Bucky just stood there. But then Bucky stepped up next to Steve and turned, leaning heavily against the rubble before he slid down to the ground. He was on Steve’s right, but Steve didn’t hesitate to lean against his metal arm, needing to reassure Bucky that whatever was going on inside his head, he wasn’t alone.


	14. Chapter 14

_Get up_.

Winter told himself to get up off the ground, to get moving, to go back to the checkpoint and get the fuck out of the quarantine zone, but he couldn’t move.

He knew what it felt like, having his brain disconnected from his body, being a passenger while some other voice controlled his every action, even his thoughts, but this was different. This was worse. Steve had thought...

He’d thought...

Winter closed his eyes, grateful for the goggles and mask that hid his face, and tried to focus on his breathing.

Two hundred fifty thousand people. Steve thought he’d had a hand in the deaths of _a quarter million people_.

Feedback from his metal arm sparked through his brain. He opened his eyes, glancing down without moving his head, and saw he’d clenched his fist. He’d gone almost two days without a repair, and circuits were getting crossed. Parts were getting damaged.

He’d thought Steve was more important than going down into Tony’s lab. He’d thought _his partner_ was —

_No._

He looked up at the sky, goggles enhancing the subtle shades of blue. He saw faint light on the horizon. The east? Had they been out all night?

He forced his metal hand to relax and locked the fingers in place to avoid causing further damage. He needed repairs. He needed _out_.

A switch in his head flipped, and he shoved himself to his feet with his metal arm, plates clicking together from how the servos were glitching. He heard Steve say something, but it was lost as he switched to channel ninety-nine. After the burn, recovery crews had installed relay towers up and down the island for decontamination and sample gathering teams to communicate with HQ. Winter’s comms had built-in protocols that could override their security.

“Agent,” JARVIS’ voice said, comfortingly calm and steady.

“Priority Two evac needed,” Winter said, though he was tempted to make it Priority One.

“Do you require medical assistance?”

“Repairs.” Winter examined his gloved hand, remembering he’d left the photostatic veil in the car. _Fuck it_ , he thought, turning his face back up to the sky.

“Dispatching quinjet to your location. ETA twelve minutes, Agent,” JARVIS reported.

Some of the tension left Winter’s body, now that he’d secured his escape. He turned back to Steve, who’d gotten to his feet at some point. “Can you drive the SUV?”

Steve had his mask off, the idiot. Winter nearly told him to put it back on before remembering _it didn’t matter_. Steve thought he was a fucking mass-murderer.

Instead of saying anything about the mask, he just rushed right over Steve’s answer, saying, “The keys should still be there. The nav system will get you back to Avengers Tower.” He considered taking the gun back, but fuck that, too. He couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Bucky —”

_“Agent Winter.”_

Steve recoiled back against the fallen wall.

“Go,” Winter ordered. “If you’re not back in two hours, you’re going on the Red Notices.”

For a second, he thought Steve was going to argue — maybe even start something. Then Steve’s shoulders slumped, and he quietly said, “Understood.”

A tiny corner of Winter’s mind cried out at seeing Steve so despondent. So broken. He had the momentary impulse to pull Steve close and comfort him — an impulse that he quashed easily under the memory of Steve’s horrified voice.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked off to find an open area where the quinjet could land.

 

~~~

 

In the end, Steve depended on his gear to get him through the checkpoint building. Bucky — _Winter_ — had a bearing that terrified people when he chose. Steve had spent enough time as a trained circus animal that he could do a passable imitation, especially with the suffocating mask and goggles back in place.

Still, he was stiff and hungry from sitting on fallen bricks all night, and he was on the verge of falling apart at the thought that he’d really lost Bucky this time. By the time he made it through the building — at a walk, not a run — and into the elevator, he was shaking with anger at himself and at Bucky and at that bastard Rumlow, who _clearly_ had spent the last seven fucking months lying to Steve.

He got into the car, dropped his weapon on the passenger seat, and found the keys on the dash. It took some experimenting to find the “nav system” Bucky had mentioned, but when he hit the right button, a screen on the dashboard lit up, and a familiar British voice said, “Navigation system online. What is your destination?”

“JARVIS?” Steve asked hopefully.

“Agent Rogers. Do you require assistance?”

Steve couldn’t tell if JARVIS was angry or just politely reserved. “Is Buck—” He cut off and winced, stripping off the mask and goggles. “If I ask if, uh, Agent Winter is all right, are you going to tell me I don’t have clearance?”

“Yes, Agent.”

Steve sighed and sat forward to get the power pack off his belt. “Figures. Then how about helping me get back to Avengers Tower?”

“Shall I take remote control of the vehicle or would you prefer to drive manually?”

“You can do that?”

Instead of answering, the engine revved, and the gear shift dropped into reverse. Steve grabbed the armrest and the center console as the SUV backed out of its parking spot. The wheel turned, untouched.

“You... do that,” he said, moving his seat back a few inches so he wouldn’t accidentally kick the pedals. “Did he say... anything? Leave a message for me?”

“No, Agent Rogers.”

Steve sighed. “All right.”

“Did you have a message for Agent Winter?” JARVIS asked.

Steve looked out the windshield as the headlights swept across other parked cars and motorcycles. “No, I don’t think so,” he finally said. The SUV lurched as it went through an exit gate that opened automatically. He couldn’t think of any messages that Bucky would accept — not now, at least. Hopefully all they needed was time.

 

~~~

 

As soon as Winter walked into the lab, Tony beckoned him over. “JARVIS said you need repairs.”

“Yes.” Winter peeled off the mask he hadn’t bothered to remove and tossed it on the nearest workbench. It pulled free of the power cable with a _click_ , and Tony winced.

“Hey, gentle,” Tony protested, holding up his hands. “No abuse of tech in here.”

Winter didn’t snarl only because he was too busy freeing himself from the power cable, power pack, and tac belt. He threw the goggles off last, then got to work on his jacket and gloves.

“The silent stripper act is working for you, in case you were wondering,” Tony said. “Equal parts hot and creepy.”

Winter shot Tony a halfhearted glare. He pulled off the HYDRAsaur shirt he’d worn on what was clearly _not_ a date, ignored Tony’s wolf whistle, and asked, “Scanner?”

Tony’s frown took a moment to disappear. “Oh. Yeah.” He headed for the corner of the lab that was crowded with equipment racks. “This one’s new. I did some modifications, made it more open for you. Wait over there, behind the engine block.”

Another time, Winter would’ve been grateful. Now, he headed for the far side of the workshop — and then froze in his tracks. Huge sheets of steel were propped up against a rolling tool cart, polished to a bright mirror finish.

The sight of his own bare face, unmasked, jolted him like a punch. The world tilted under his feet. He staggered, gripping the nearest workbench.

_Look away. Look away._

The metal bench crumpled under his hands. He clenched his jaw until his teeth hurt. His eyes were locked to his reflection. A stranger’s face, pale and stubbled, with dark circles under blue eyes.

The rattle of metal wheels jolted through him. He staggered back and slammed into the hydraulic engine lift. The end jabbed into his kidney hard enough to shatter the reflection’s hold with a flare of pain that shot down his spine. He gasped for breath, eyes closed tightly, and struggled to reclaim himself.

 _I’m the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier_.

He thought it — maybe said it aloud — until he was able to gasp in a few deep breaths that helped settle his thoughts. Distantly, he heard someone apologizing, saying, “Sorry, sorry, Winter. All clear now. You’re good to go. Take your time.”

“Nichevo,” Winter grunted. He looked up and saw Tony standing a good ten feet away, next to a canvas draped over something tall and flat. _A mirror_. Or something close.

Still shaky, Winter scrubbed at his eyes. His back ached like he’d been stabbed and his head was pounding. He wanted to retreat back to his apartment and lie there in the dark for a week, but... repairs. That was it. That was why he was here.

When he got to his feet, Tony let out a relieved sigh. “Have a seat,” he said in a blandly normal voice. “I’ll bring the scanner over to you.”

Winter made it to the nearest stool and dropped onto it, then tried to find a comfortable position that didn’t strain his back. The metallic rattle started up again, and he looked over at Tony, who was wheeling a massive metal framework over to him. There were no side plates, but the top was solid, and armatures dropped down on all sides. Winter closed his eyes, ignoring the blue glow that seared through his eyelids when Tony got everything plugged in.

“So what...” Tony trailed off as Winter held out his metal hand, turning the palm up. “Huh. Did you find some scavengers after all?”

“It’s from the _Lemurian Star._ ” Winter turned his arm to show the more cosmetic damage above his elbow. “Also, this.”

Tony sighed, exasperated. “You’re supposed to tell me about this sort of thing.”

“Busy,” Winter grunted, wishing he’d taken Tony’s chair instead, so he could lean back.

Then he went cold inside at the thought. No, the stool was good. Very good.

“Shut off the feedback circuit,” Tony told him as usual, rolling his chair up to Winter’s left side.

A moment’s concentration, and Winter’s left arm seemed to vanish, turning into a dead weight. Tony caught the wrist and rested it on a support brace that he adjusted to the proper height. Winter heard him manipulate the plates, but with the neuro-feedback circuits disabled, he didn’t feel anything.

“You want to talk about it?” Tony asked.

Winter was tempted to tell him to shut the fuck up, but Tony’s incessant babble was the best possible distraction. “Status on Rumlow.”

“Unlike some prisoners, that one’s still under custody,” Tony reported. “I put him in the holding cell we designed for Bruce’s Other Half — the one that didn’t hold him during our trial run.”

“You repaired the door first?”

Tony scoffed. “Yes. Door’s locked, lights are on full, minimal food and water, standard operating procedure.”

“Someone’s monitoring?” Winter asked, ignoring the smell of hot components and wire. Tony was already working on disassembly — never a good sign. Apparently the damage had been worse than Winter expected.

“JARVIS is, since you wanted this all under the radar.”

“JARVIS, has Rumlow said anything?”

“No, Agent,” JARVIS said. “Nothing to report.”

Winter nodded. “Keep me updated.” He opened his eyes and glanced at the work Tony was doing. He was wearing magnifying lenses on his forehead rather than over his eyes, doing all of his work via the oversized hologram projected above Winter’s open hand.

“Of course, Agent,” JARVIS said. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Report status of” — Winter faltered. He couldn’t say _Agent Rogers_ and wouldn’t say _Steve_ — “of Rogers.”

“Agent Rogers is returning to base,” JARVIS said. He’d call Steve by that designation until instructed otherwise, and Winter didn’t feel like getting into that discussion in front of Tony. “Estimated arrival time, thirty-nine minutes.”

Well within the arbitrary two-hour deadline Winter had imposed. So much for the simple solution of letting the law enforcement network handle him. Not that Winter would actually let that happen. Rogers was _his_ problem to solve.

As was Rumlow. And _that_ was something Winter could act on with a clear conscience. That bastard was a known traitor to Unity, and there was no possibility that he’d try to get on Winter’s good side by claiming a previous relationship.

“So what’s going on with _Agent_ Rogers, anyway?” Tony asked over the hiss of gas. Winter glanced over and saw Tony had broken out the blowtorch. Shit.

Instead of answering, Winter asked, “Is this going to need neuro recalibration?”

Tony glanced up, meeting Winter’s eyes. “If you want me to route the signal wiring properly, I’ll have to replace it. I have to replace critical structural components anyway. If we don’t recalibrate —”

“I lose fine control.” Winter sighed and closed his eyes again. Good thing he hadn’t eaten breakfast. Or much of anything yesterday other than his dinner with Steve. “Get on with it.”

Tony grunted and went back to his work without asking about Rogers again. Distraction successful.

 

~~~

 

A sharp _click_ woke Steve from his uncomfortable doze on the couch in Bucky’s apartment. He saw a dark figure silhouetted against a backlit doorway. Light gleamed off metal.

“Bucky?” he asked, though it was more like a croak. He sat up, pain flaring through his back, as Bucky staggered into the room, then fell against the nearest armchair. When Bucky pushed off, the armchair rocked, then crashed down into the coffee table, shattering Steve’s water glass. The empty pizza box left over from Steve’s breakfast went flying.

The light in the bathroom area came on, too bright in the otherwise pitch black apartment. Steve almost turned away to give Bucky privacy, but he saw Bucky drop to his knees in front of the toilet and panicked.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as Bucky leaned over, retching. He was using his right hand to hold back his hair. The left was twitching, metal plates flashing as his fingers clenched and unclenched.

Bucky might’ve shaken his head, or maybe he was just still puking. Steve couldn’t tell. After how Bucky had abandoned him in the quarantine zone, he didn’t feel like he had the right to even get close, but he had to do _something_.

This wasn’t just a little stomach bug. This was full-on near-death vomiting, the kind Steve knew all too well from his childhood. But that was _before_ the serum. What could do this to Bucky now? Was it the contagion? No. Bucky said he was immune, just like Steve. So what then?

“Uh, JARVIS?” he asked, wincing at the sounds Bucky was making.

“Yes, Agent Rogers?” JARVIS answered.

“I need...” He shook his head, staring at Bucky, who surely had emptied his stomach by now, though he was still coughing and retching. His left hand was opening and closing in a precise, mechanical rhythm, as if he had no conscious control of it. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?”

“Neural calibration stress reaction.”

“Not helpful, JARVIS,” Steve said, shooting a pointless glare at the ceiling. “In English.”

“His neural pathways are realigning to the repairs done to his cybernetic arm,” JARVIS said, which was only a little more helpful than before. “Until complete, symptoms will include nausea, balance issues, and sensitivity to light and noise.”

“This is _normal?_ ”

“Within expected parameters, yes, Agent. Warning signs of abnormal alignment include bleeding, loss of vision, heavily slurred speech, and loss of consciousness.”

 _“Shit.”_ Steve wasn’t going to leave Bucky to go through this alone, or as alone as he got with a computer watching him. “Can’t you give him anything?”

“Pharmaceutical compounds strong enough to work on his enhanced biology will interfere with the realignment.”

Which meant _no_. Fine. Steve could take care of this the old-fashioned way, just like Bucky had done for him so many times.

“Toast,” Steve finally decided. “Toast and ice water. Can you send some, JARVIS?”

“Yes, Agent. Expect delivery within ten minutes.”

Steve let out a breath and went over to Bucky, who looked too caught up in his misery to even notice when Steve crouched down beside him. Carefully resting a hand on Bucky’s right shoulder, he said, “Easy, Buck. Try to relax, okay?”

Between coughs, Bucky answered in harsh, guttural maybe-Russian. Then he retched again, his whole body tensing so hard that he trembled, but nothing came up.

 _Distract him_. Steve sat on the floor and got a hand between Bucky’s chest and the cold porcelain. “Bucky, you’ve got to breathe. Come on. Just like how you used to help me,” he said, rubbing circles over Bucky’s sternum. “Inhale, Bucky. Push against my hand.”

Bucky’s whole body hitched, but Steve felt a push. Heard a quick little gasp.

“Good,” Steve said, relieved. “Again, Bucky. Slower.”

It took a few tries, but finally Bucky was at least pausing to breathe between attempts to void his already-empty stomach. Steve brushed Bucky’s hair back from his sweat-damp forehead and kept one eye on the wall where the delivery robot would come through, hopefully soon.

Maybe the breathing helped or maybe Zola’s serum was finally kicking in — Bucky stopped, though he only moved enough to rest his head on his forearm. He didn’t even twitch when the wall hissed open and a little robot rolled in, giving an inquiring sort of chirp.

“One second,” Steve told it before wondering if he was being absurd, talking to a robot. Considering JARVIS, probably not. He touched Bucky’s back and asked, “Can you get up, rinse out your mouth? You’ll feel better.”

Bucky inhaled raggedly. He braced himself against the toilet and stood, but he was shaky enough that Steve caught him by the arm to help. Since Bucky didn’t pull away, Steve kept hold of him, guiding him to the sink, and prevented him from falling over when he waved his hand under the faucet to start the water running.

A few minutes later, Steve got Bucky settled on the couch. He seemed to relax, though Steve didn’t know if it was because of the darkness or because he’d finally overcome his nausea. Steve unloaded the food from the robot, gave it a quiet nod of thanks, and sat down next to Bucky. The metal left hand was still opening and closing, so Steve filled the glass with ice water and put it into Bucky’s other hand.

“Go slow. You don’t want to get yourself sick again,” he warned, tentatively touching the metal plates with his fingertips. When Bucky didn’t jerk away, Steve stroked softly, hoping to give Bucky something else to focus on.

Bucky’s hand was shaking, rattling the ice against the glass. He finished about a third of the glass before he set it down. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough, reminding Steve briefly of Rumlow — a reminder he sure as hell didn’t need, considering just how many lies Rumlow had told him.

“Whatever I can.” Steve picked up the plate of toast and offered it to Bucky. “Eat something. You’ll feel better.”

Bucky picked up the top slice. “You sound like your mother,” he muttered, and Steve’s heart jumped.

 _He remembers_.

Telling himself not to push, Steve just laughed quietly. “You spent almost twenty years taking care of me. About time I repay the favor, don’t you think?”

Instead of answering, Bucky crunched into the toast. The next time his hand clenched around Steve’s, it didn’t relax. The plates on his arm shifted with a quiet mechanical hiss.

“Better?” Steve asked hopefully.

Bucky took his time chewing and swallowing. Without lifting his head, he said, “You thought I killed them all.”

Steve flinched back, looking guiltily down. “With everything I’d heard... All I knew was what Rumlow had told me.”

Bucky turned, looking at Steve through the fall of his hair. “You also said we’re partners.”

Steve looked down at the metal fingers laced with his own. “Yeah, I did.” He squeezed Bucky’s hand and felt a quick, mechanical twitch in response. “But people change, Buck. You said you killed people ‘for your handlers,’ right?”

This time, Bucky’s quick look was one of narrow-eyed hostility.

Steve raised his free hand, saying, “It’s not like I have a timeline. I told you, I don’t know _anything_ about this world except what I was told, and it’s becoming pretty clear that everything I heard was pretty skewed.”

Bucky took another bite of the toast. He chewed. Swallowed. Drank some more water. Only then did he say, “And when I said two hundred fifty thousand people died, you figured I did it.”

Steve shook his head. “I didn’t —”

“You _did_.” Bucky sat up, jaw clenched, and pulled free of Steve’s grasp. “You jumped right to that. Right to _me_.”

“To _HYDRA_ ,” Steve snapped back. “Because the HYDRA I knew? They wouldn’t _blink_ at killing a quarter million people. A _million_ people. Not if it got them power!”

Bucky’s lip curled. “You want me to go over what I did every time I was out of cryo in the thirty-five years I _did_ fight for HYDRA and Unity? My kill-count is even more inaccurate —”

“No!”

“— because some of that was calling in airstrikes, but I pulled the trigger —”

“Bucky, _stop!_ ” Steve grabbed his shoulder and pushed, turning him so they were facing each other. “I know what war is like!”

“Yeah?” Bucky challenged.

Steve sighed. “Yeah.”

“Then you have no fucking right to judge me.” Bucky stood up, and when he wavered, Steve shot up next to him, grabbing for his arm. Bucky pulled away with a warning snarl and staggered to the armchair, using it to steady himself. Steve took a step after him, but he shot Steve a warning glare and said, “Out.”

“Bucky.”

_“Get out.”_

Steve backed off, then turned so he wouldn’t have to watch Bucky stumble across the apartment. As the bed creaked, Steve shoved open the door and escaped into the hallway, struggling to hide how he felt.

He’d been beaten and shot and almost died from illness more times than he could count. He’d lost the woman he loved, the best friend he loved, his whole world. He’d been lied to, betrayed, and used without regard for his own feelings.

None of it had hurt as much as Bucky’s anger.


	15. Chapter 15

“Pardon me, Citizen.”

Tony cracked one eye open, then opened it fully when it didn’t work. Everything was still as dark as it’d been with his eyes closed. Was it night or had he fallen asleep with his helmet off and powered down?

“JARVIS?” he croaked, trying the other eye. It didn’t help.

“My apologies for waking you, Citizen,” JARVIS said politely. “There is a situation that requires your instruction.”

“Right.” He pushed up on one elbow, and only then felt the softness under him. Combined with the fact that he was naked, he guessed he was in bed. _Someone’s_ bed, anyway. “Lights to twenty —” He yelped when the lights flared, searing through his eyeballs. “Ten! Ten percent.”

“Yes, Citizen. And may I wish you a good evening.” How a computer could sound that sardonic, Tony had no idea.

“Snark is not an attractive quality in an AI.” Tony was tempted to fall back into the pillows, but he apparently had something more important to do.

“Imitation is the greatest form of flattery. And you did create me.”

“Ha, ha.” Tony got up out of bed, which was never a good plan, and asked, “What’s the ‘situation’?”

“Agent Rogers requires housing.”

“This is important enough to wake me up for? Isn’t Winter dealing with him?” Since he was up, sort of, he staggered for the bathroom. Pee _before_ getting a drink. That was the rule.

“Agent Winter is unavailable.”

That made Tony pause — Winter was _always_ available when he wasn’t in cryo — before he remembered the calibration and testing. Winter would be a wreck for the next twelve hours. Maybe longer, considering how long he’d been out of cryo. “Right. Okay.” After a pit stop at the toilet, Tony splashed some cold water on his face, which didn’t really help. He stared at the scrolling news display projected over the mirror, but nothing caught his eye.

Eventually, JARVIS asked, “Shall I direct him to the common areas? Society generally frowns upon lurking in hallways.”

Tony scoffed. “I lurk in hallways all the time.”

“And you’re such a role model, Citizen.”

 _Everybody’s a comedian_. Shaking his head, he headed back out into the bedroom, where he eyed the bar in the corner. But any problem involving the Winter Soldier, even peripherally, required a special solution, and _that_ meant he needed the bar in the main room.

He headed for the door, only to have JARVIS say, “Your trousers, Citizen.”

Right. Pepper had made Tony add that directive to JARVIS’ programming after the space station holoconference incident. He diverted long enough to find pants, then resumed course, scratching around his arc reactor.

“Shall I pass a message to Agent Rogers, Citizen?” JARVIS prompted. Sometimes, he could be a little _too_ diligent and mission-focused, like an omniscient version of Winter. And that was a _terrifying_ thought, one that merited pouring himself a double.

“Why don’t you tell him to come talk to me himself?” Tony prompted.

“Very good, Citizen.”

Tony drank half his double on the way to the open kitchen.  He remembered seeing a couple of fresh, untouched pizzas yesterday, but when he opened the fridge, he found only half of one. Served him right, letting the Avengers move in and scavenge all the good leftovers.

He took out the box and stepped away from the fridge. The door closed, and Steve Rogers was _right the fuck there_ , looming like Winter’s scruffy blond twin.

Tony didn’t yelp. He _didn’t_. He ended up two feet back, close to the knife block, but that was just practical. Preserving personal space and all that.

Not that Steve seemed to notice. He was gawking at the arc reactor, and all he managed to get out was, “What...?”

“What, what?” Tony asked before he took another drink to burn the sleep out of his brain. Only then did he remember that Steve was a remnant of the pre-Unification years. “High-tech” to him was probably a battery-operated flashlight. Tony touched the arc reactor and said, “Don’t worry about it. What happened?”

It apparently took some effort for Steve to wrench his eyes up to Tony’s face, not that Tony wasn’t used to being stared at. “I... Did JARVIS...”

“Said you need a place to stay.” Tony put the pizza box on the counter and opened it. He took out one slice and debated what to do with the rest. On a good day, Winter could polish off two pizzas by himself, so leaving it in arm’s reach of Steve was problematic, but Tony needed a refill. Deciding the drink was more important, he abandoned the pizza and headed to the bar.

Steve winced, looking like someone had kicked his puppy. “Yeah,” he said quietly, drifting along after Tony without so much as a second glance at the pizza. Victory.

Behind the bar, Tony slipped on his Mark 7 bracelets, just as a precaution. The suit would chafe while he was shirtless, but if Dad’s records were to be believed, Steve Rogers was everything the Winter Soldier was, dialed up to a hundred ten percent. Tony didn’t stand a chance against him without an ace or two up his nonexistent sleeve.

“So, did he figure out you’re a traitor?” Tony asked, remembering too late that he should probably be a little diplomatic. This was what he got for talking to people before he had sufficient food, alcohol, and caffeine in his system.

“I’m not —” Steve shut his mouth and looked down at the carpet. Now _he_ looked like the kicked puppy.

“JARVIS, pull up the file on Rogers,” Tony said, gesturing to the holoprojectors above the bar.

The air between Tony and Steve filled with images from terrorist attacks across the continent. Surveillance footage from a raid on a Project Insight Data Aggregation Center. Spliced cell phone and ATM camera shots of an attack on a supply convoy. Other raids from other sources, and in every single one, Steve Rogers was front and center, in the thick of the fight, usually with Brock Rumlow at his side.

Steve went pale, looking at all the havoc he’d inflicted on Unity’s infrastructure. He shook his head, finally focusing on Tony, and said, “You don’t understand.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “I’d say this qualifies as grounds for divorce.”

“I _didn’t know_ —”

A sharp wave cut the holoprojections. “Doesn’t matter. You can start paying for your crimes now.”

Steve’s hard glare reminded Tony that this particular super-soldier had been made by the weapons division of Stark Industries, and now the safety was off. Tony took a step back, readying himself for the wrist-flick that would activate the targeting bracelets.

“You think I’m going to let you arrest me?” Steve asked.

But he hadn’t advanced, so Tony picked up his drink and knocked half of it back. “Me?” He shook his head. “Civilian. But I’ve got four floors of law enforcement specialists in the Tower who’d jump at the chance.”

Steve’s chin came up. “Let them try.”

“Are you trying to _deny_ your involvement?” Tony shot back. “Because the evidence is right there for anyone to see, just as soon as I tell JARVIS to release it.”

Steve clenched his jaw. “Nobody’s arresting me until I know Bucky’s safe.”

 _Aha_. So he was still loyal, despite whatever had happened this morning in the quarantine zone. Tony relaxed fractionally and said, “That’s what you want? Because that footage JARVIS found tells me you want him dead.”

Steve’s eyes flared wide with disbelief. His fists clenched, sickeningly perfect muscles bunching and flexing.

“He’s a _target_ ,” Tony continued, rushing right over whatever declaration Steve might’ve made. “The Winter Soldier is at the top of the most wanted list for that traitor who was apparently your BFF for the last half a year. So how do I know you’re not going to cut his throat when he finally drops his guard? Huh?”

Steve unclenched his fists and flattened his hands on top of the bar — not that Tony felt any safer, given the super-soldier was built for looming menacingly. “The first time I went behind enemy lines, it was with your father and Peggy Carter, and we were on a mission to _save Bucky_.”

A part of Tony wanted to grab Steve and shake him until he told every story about Howard that he knew. The rest of him wanted to blast him in the face with a repulsor — at half-power, sure — for how casually he talked about being BFFs with the dad who’d been so profoundly disappointed in his only biological son.

“And now?” Tony demanded.

“You want to know if my priority has changed? Go ahead. Get in my way.”

Tony knew what he _should_ do. Summon the Mark 7.  Call up a special threat response team from downstairs. Tell JARVIS to use every trick Tony had ever engineered to subdue, capture, or even kill Steve Rogers.

But after half a lifetime of searching for Steve — the first son he’d had and lost — Dad had made it his mission to help the Winter Soldier. Winter had given _everything_ for HYDRA, and if Tony resented always being his father’s last priority, he considered Winter a friend. Or whatever equivalent Winter had for friends.

“JARVIS,” Tony said, never looking away from the threat standing across the bar. “Assign _Agent Rogers_ quarters somewhere near Agent Wilson.”

“Very good, Citizen,” JARVIS answered. “Apartment twelve is ready for a guest. If you would proceed to the elevators, Agent Rogers?”

Steve stared at Tony for another couple of heartbeats. Then he nodded and turned, saying, “On my way, JARVIS.”

Tony watched, indulging in one long moment of pure envy for the absolute perfection that was his father’s finest work. Then, just as Steve walked into the foyer by the elevators, Tony said, “And JARVIS. Once he’s inside, lock the door.”

Steve hesitated in mid-step.

Tony smirked. “Don’t unlock it without Winter’s authorization. You don’t mind, do you, Rogers? That’s why you’re here, after all.”

Every muscle in Steve’s back and arms went tight. He turned enough to meet Tony’s eyes. His smile was tight. Mocking.

“Whatever you say. Citizen.” Then he disappeared into an elevator, leaving Tony wishing he’d summoned the Mark 7 armor after all.

 

~~~

 

Tony was used to his lab being invaded by Pepper, Winter, and Bruce on a regular basis. Clint and Natasha shared the same creepy tendencies to show up without warning, usually while Tony was welding something, resulting in more than one visit to the first aid kit.

Sam Wilson, though... That was new.

“Come on in. Don’t pet the robots,” Tony invited, closing the confidential files that he wasn’t really reading anyway. That was work, and he needed to relax, which meant updating his oldest and dearest friend. DUM-E beeped a hopeful greeting at Sam, lifting his primary armature out of Tony’s reach. “Hey! Down!”

“Nice place,” Sam observed, ducking under the car lift Tony hadn’t bothered to lower. “Very mad scientist.”

“Most mad scientists are amateurs or grad students. I’m a professional.” Tony tucked the wiring harness back into its housing and closed the access panel. He didn’t like performing surgery on friends with an audience. “Have a seat. What’d you need?”

Sam nodded his thanks and pulled up a stool. “There a reason you put Rogers next door to me?”

Tony shrugged. “Had to put him somewhere.”

“And the holding cells are all full up?”

Tony leaned back in the hydraulic embrace of his customized chair. He should just sleep down here. It’d be more efficient. No more getting out of bed and taking the elevator for late-night engineering sessions. “Rogers is on temporary assignment to the Avengers.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “You always give jobs to traitors?”

“Special circumstances. Need-to-know.”

Sam let out a sharp, frustrated exhale. “And we’re supposed to just be okay with this?”

It figured Winter had picked a pararescue for their latest recruit. He couldn’t have found some big, dumb soldier who couldn’t think beyond point-and-shoot?

“The Winter Soldier wants him,” Tony finally said.

“I thought he’s going into cryo soon.” Sam frowned. “He was supposed to go in as soon as we got back from the vacation he didn’t have.”

“It’s complicated —”

“I have clearance for his medical files,” Sam interrupted, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What’s the deal, Tony?”

As the son of a Founder, Tony had _some_ leeway when it came to the law. (Actually, Unity was too egalitarian for preferential treatment like that. He was just excellent at fast-talking his way out of almost any mess.) But while he was happy to play fast and loose with most civic ordinances, he didn’t want to end up in front of a firing squad of his own weapons for high treason.

“If you’ve got clearance, maybe you should ask him,” he finally said, feeling a pang of guilt. Winter wasn’t one for heart-to-heart chats on the best of days. Plus there was that pesky no visitors policy for his private quarters. Still, Sam was resourceful. He’d figure something out. “We had to recalibrate his arm. He could probably use medical support.”

Sam stared at him for a couple of seconds. Then he got up, saying, “All right. Have fun with your robot.”

“Always do.” Tony waved and turned back to DUM-E before that guilt could get the best of him. Sam really was a good person. Hopefully, Winter wouldn’t kill him.

 

~~~

 

A soft, familiar voice dragged Winter out of a state more like unconsciousness than sleep. Stabs of sharp, burning pain shot through his brain, and he rolled onto his back, grabbing at his arm. He ran his right hand up and down, trying to locate each source of pain — a technique meant to orient his brain to its new body-map. It sounded like absolute crap, but it worked, especially when it turned out some of those pain-signals were coming from midair.

“Agent?”

JARVIS. That was what had woken him up. He opened his eyes to absolute darkness, which meant his electrochromic windows were still active. The windows were matte, non-reflective, absorbing light like the deepest void of space. “Yeah,” he grunted, looking around futilely. Even his enhanced eyes couldn’t pick out anything without light.

“My apologies, Agent,” JARVIS said guiltily. “I have contradictory instructions. Agent Wilson is listed as being on your emergency medical team and is requesting access, but —”

He saw the problem at once: no guests were allowed in the apartment. He nodded and sat up, rubbing his chest where bare skin met metal plates. “Tell him to wait two minutes.”

“Very good, Agent.”

Winter got out of bed, unbuttoning his jeans as he headed for the toilet. Why was he still wearing jeans? Lock the door, puke up his guts, shower, then right to bed. That was _always_ his pattern.

It took him a deplorably long time to remember. _Steve_. Steve had been in here, with toast and water and gentle touches that Winter shouldn’t have been able to tolerate but had. Those touches had _helped_.

He brushed his teeth twice to get rid of the taste — and to buy time to try and remember what had happened to Steve, but nothing came to him. Another sign of how badly he’d deteriorated. He usually had a perfect memory.

He changed jeans and pulled on a black T-shirt, then went to the door, where he got another shock. The security deadbolt wasn’t engaged.

_What the fuck happened last night?_

He opened the door and looked Sam over. Casual clothes, not visibly armed. Not an emergency then. Relaxing a bit, he said, “Report.”

The fact that Sam wasn’t put off by the brusque greeting was one of the many reasons Winter had scouted him for the team. Tony was brilliant but erratic, Natasha was nearly as paranoid as Winter, Bruce had anger issues, and even Winter, who didn’t believe in “luck,” saw that Clint had the worst luck of any person he’d ever seen. Sam was a rock. He’d keep the team grounded. The fact that he was a flying medic and a crack shot was just a bonus.

“Hey. It’s nothing urgent,” Sam said with a smile full of warmth and admiration. He made no move to push his way into the apartment. “Got a minute to talk?”

Winter nodded, gesturing out into the hall. “Kitchen. I need to eat.” He couldn’t remember how much of that toast he’d eaten, but it wasn’t enough.

They walked down the hall and into the elevator together, in comfortable silence. Outside the curving wall of glass, Winter saw sunlight. Middle of the day? He was tempted to ask _which_ day. His sense of time was completely ruined.

Cooking wasn’t just a necessary step to getting food. The manual dexterity required would help his brain orient to the new circuitry in his arm. As Sam sat down at the breakfast bar, Winter went right to the refrigerator and took out bacon, eggs, and milk. When he opened the bread box on the counter, he found a loaf of challah and half a mug of cold coffee. The challah had started showing up after Sam had joined the team. The mug was a hazard of living anywhere near Tony. Winter took out the challah and left the mug where it was.

“What’d you want to discuss?” he asked as he started cutting the bread into thick slices.

“I know I’ve only got basic security clearance, but...” Sam sighed. “Rogers.”

Winter looked back at Sam, who met his eyes steadily. No fear. No accusation. “You want some?”

“Thanks. No bacon,” Sam said unnecessarily. When Winter turned back to saw off more slices, Sam continued, “First guess: either Rogers is a traitor or he’s deep cover. _Real_ deep cover.”

Winter shook his head, then used the back of his metal hand to push his hair back out of his face. “Neither.”

Unruffled, Sam said, “But he’s like you, right? Enhanced?”

Winter nodded. “More advanced than I am.”

Sam let out a quiet exhale and stood. He got an electric kettle out of an inconveniently low cupboard, saying, “Maybe you could have a _talk_ with Tony... I have to keep hiding these so he can’t ‘upgrade’ them. The last upgrade caught fire when I plugged it in.”

Winter smiled faintly, trying to ignore the way his metal hand kept twitching. He focused on cracking eggs instead of crushing them. It was harder than it should have been after he’d had so many hours for his nervous system to get used to the repairs. Was something wrong with his neural interface? “You get used to Tony, eventually.”

Sam huffed and went to the sink to fill the kettle. “Yeah, I guess.” Once it was filled, he turned it on, then went to fuss with the coffee grinder. Tony liked his coffee automated and Winter liked it fast, but Sam preferred the very hands-on Chemex. He applied the same meticulous attention to detail to making coffee as he did to field surgery, and while the two frying pans were heating up, Winter indulged in watching Sam work for a few minutes.

Once the pans were heated, Winter laid strips of bacon in one. In the other, he swirled a generous pat of butter. Then he went back to whisking eggs and milk together, saying, “There’s no record of a registered relationship in your file.”

“Nothing serious, no.” Sam sounded surprised. “Haven’t met the right person.”

“Steve’s my partner.”

Sam nearly dropped the paper filter he was wetting.

Winter shrugged and started soaking two slices of bread. After a minute, he flipped them over. Sam didn’t say a word — just kept working on the coffee. Finally, Winter said, “I don’t remember it. Apparently it was pre-Unity.”

“Was that even legal for two men?”

Another shrug. “No, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. And it...” He sighed and flipped the bread, then transferred it to the pan with the butter. “I don’t perceive him as a potential threat. Not always.”

“Just sometimes?”

Winter smiled wryly and nodded. “ _Everyone_ is a potential threat. Always.”

“Even me? Ouch.”

Winter couldn’t help but laugh. “If you weren’t a threat, you wouldn’t be useful to me.”

Sam snorted. “I’ll tell my mom when I see her later. She’ll be so proud.”

Winter glanced back, watching for a moment as Sam started pouring a thin stream of hot water into the top of the Chemex. “You’re seeing her today?”

“She came up with some friends to go to Broadway. We’re meeting at temple for Havdalah.”

Winter frowned. He had no memory of studying religion, but he’d learned pieces here and there over the years. Jews had specific evening services on Friday and Saturday nights, before and after their Sabbath, but he couldn’t remember which was Havdalah and which was... the other one. Still, it got him closer to figuring out what day it was without having to check the calendar.

As Winter flipped the first two slices, then went to turn the bacon, Sam asked, “Are you two registering? I figure if the relationship goes back to pre-U, it’s not official.”

“No idea. I hadn’t considered it.” It came out quiet. Then he huffed, adding, “Not if he’s a traitor.”

Gently, Sam said, “Criminals, you can sometimes rehabilitate. But you can’t reform a traitor.”

Winter sighed, glaring down at his metal hand as the circuits glitched, making his fingers twist the metal spatula. He’d said that very same thing in interviews and pre-mission briefings more times than he could count. But he’d never thought he _could_ have a partner — he’d never had anyone get that close. He still hadn’t adjusted to imagining that he already had one.

He flattened the spatula and scooped up the French toast to flip it again. His loyalty was to Unity, not to the stranger downstairs. That was how it had to stay. “I know.”

 

~~~

 

As prisons went, this one was pretty damn luxurious. Not that Steve had much experience with prisons before waking up in Bucky’s confinement cell. At least here he had a bed, a kitchen, and a full bathroom, all of it a hell of a lot nicer than the apartment where he’d grown up.

And unlike the safehouses where he’d spent the last seven months, this apartment, like Bucky’s, had a huge black glass device hanging on the wall. He hadn’t wanted to intrude on Bucky’s privacy and explore, but here... well, this was his place for now.

It took some time and experimentation before he figured out how to turn the tablet on, not with a direct touch but by pushing buttons on a small black device. He scrolled through an endless array of channels, every one showing full-color movies, cartoons, or newsreels, offering much more information than on the tablet Rumlow had provided him months earlier.

For seven months, he’d been hungry for news of the world. Now, he jumped from one newsreel to another, always wary of Rumlow’s warnings about propaganda, but everything seemed... _peaceful_. Oh, there were reports of thefts and assaults and petty crime, but no mass-executions. No military actions. No concentration camps. Program after program implied the world was, well, _normal_.

Rumlow really had been lying about HYDRA, Unity, _everything_. Maybe this world wasn’t perfect, but Steve had yet to see anything worthy of the sort of violent resistance Rumlow and the others had mounted. Others including Steve himself.

He leaned forward, resting his head in his hand, remembering the last seven months’ worth of guerrilla operations. God, how many innocent people had he killed? With his strength, even a single punch could be fatal, and he hadn’t been holding back. Between his shield and his guns and his fists...

No wonder Bucky hated him.

After the newsreels, Steve found documentaries. Entire channels were devoted to retelling the history of the world, and though Steve couldn’t find anything on the Second World War, his heart bled when he stumbled upon a program about the Founders. About Peggy. Older, more beautiful, and married. To a _woman,_ no less. With Angie Martinelli-Carter (whoever that was — probably another SSR agent) at her side, Peggy had crusaded for a world without war, a world under one unified government, breaking his heart with her historic speech before the British Parliament, leading the war effort against the USSR...

And Howard had not only used Stark Industries’ weapons division to give HYDRA’s armies such terrible power that enemies often surrendered without a shot fired. As each nation fell, he brought them into Unity not only with laws and soldiers but with infrastructure, medicine, and education. There was no mention of HYDRA’s original doctrine. No sense of racial or national superiority. In fact, Peggy and Howard spoke of the opposite, in fact, citing their stance on equality for all people time and time again.

How had Peggy and Howard turned HYDRA away from Schmidt’s insane vision? More to the point, _why?_

He turned off the program before it could go into details of her death. There was only so much he could bear. Alone in a world that wasn’t his, a world that wasn’t meant for him, he broke down in tears, wishing that Rumlow’s team had never recovered him from the ice. Better for him to fade into obscurity and endless sleep than to know he had fought — had killed — to tear down what she’d spent her life building.

Steve had to cough, clear his throat, blow his nose before he could say, “JARVIS.”

“Yes, Agent Rogers?”

 _Agent_. A title reserved for those who fought _for_ Peggy’s dream. “Don’t — don’t call me that. I need” — he swallowed — “I need to see the Winter Soldier.”

“May I ask for what purpose?”

Steve closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. “To turn myself in.”


	16. Chapter 16

Winter dropped his fork and actually stared at the ceiling, something he _never_ did, asking, “He _what?_ ”

“He wishes to surrender to your custody, Agent,” JARVIS reported.

“That sounds like a guilty confession to me,” Sam said quietly.

Winter looked down at the half-eaten meal, crazily thinking that if this kept up, he’d pass out from starvation. The last full meal he’d finished was at the restaurant with Steve. Their date. Sort of.

Gently, Sam asked, “You want me to take this?”

Winter frowned. “What?”

“I’m still an officer. Treason is under military jurisdiction. And you’re his partner.”

 _Partner._ Since Steve had told Winter the truth of their relationship, that word had lodged in Winter’s chest, carving out a place for itself. He’d never even considered joining his life with someone else’s — but at some point in the past, he _had_.

“I’ll do it,” Winter said, pushing his plate away. “Go to my containment cell. Restraints. Two stun batons.”

Sam got to his feet. “You think he’s going to surrender, only to put up a fight?”

Winter shook his head. “No. But he’s like me, and that means he’ll fight, in the end. Go.”

Sam nodded and left the table. Winter picked up his mug of Sam’s excellent coffee and drank, but it tasted like ash. He’d never had a partner. He’d never _wanted_ a partner. He didn’t even take lovers, because he didn’t like being touched.

But when Steve had touched him, it had felt natural. _Good_. Like something that was supposed to happen. Something he wanted to continue.

“JARVIS.”

“Yes, Agent Winter?”

“Recite Unity Code of Regulations, section ten, guidelines for determination of treason.”

“Whereas all persons are considered citizens of Unity unless convicted of a crime, a citizen of Unity, owing allegiance to Unity and their fellow citizens, who levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death.”

 _Levies war against them,_ Winter thought, remembering the fight on the ship. _Adheres to their enemies. Aid and comfort._

Even if Winter had been inclined to leniency, the law was very clear. Steve Rogers was guilty of treason, and Winter, as the senior representative of the government present, was duty-bound to carry out his execution.

 

~~~

 

As the minutes passed, turning into five minutes, ten, thirty, Steve should have calmed down. His physiology was near-perfect. His pulse raced in combat, but his resting heartbeat was almost undetectable. But as the digital clock on the wall clicked through an entire hour, his heart still pounded hard against his ribs, leaving his hands shaking and his breath coming in short, sharp pants.

Months ago — decades ago, by this world’s reckoning — he’d resigned himself to a cold, lonely death in the ice, and he’d been content to sacrifice himself to save so many strangers. Now, though, he couldn’t imagine a worse end. And it _was_ an end, he knew, because that was the one thing Rumlow _hadn’t_ lied about: Unity did not suffer traitors to live.

The door clicked open, and Steve was on his feet before he even knew he’d moved. Bucky walked in, ominous in his black combat gear, though his face was bare, thank God. Steve needed to look into his eyes one last time, just to assure himself that Bucky really was alive, even if he’d forgotten himself.

Sam followed Bucky into the room and let the door swing closed. Though the sound was faint, Steve heard the lock engage. Both of them carried stun batons from the armory outside Bucky’s containment cell, though Winter also had a semi-automatic pistol on his hip.

“You told JARVIS you want to surrender,” Bucky said flatly.

 _Oh, God._ Steve felt his shoulders go tense, but he forced his hands to stay relaxed at his sides. “Yes.” It came out as a whisper, not as a firm, defiant declaration. For seven months, he thought he’d been doing the right thing, but now he knew just how wrong he’d been. There was nothing he could do to bring back the lives he’d helped to take.

“You’re confessing to treason against Unity.”

Steve let out a breath. Nodded. “Yes.”

Bucky looked over at Sam, who advanced on Steve warily. Steve couldn’t help but brace himself, but Sam didn’t lash out with the stun baton. Instead he opened a pouch on his tac belt and took out a pair of thick, heavy rings with glowing plates on them, like electric bracelets.

“You don’t...” Steve began, but Bucky’s eyes were hard, his jaw set. He’d never looked that way in Brooklyn, but during the war, after everything Zola had done to him, he’d sometimes go cold and distant like he was now.

Steve’s heart sank. He couldn’t bring himself to fight as Sam locked one bracelet around each wrist. When Sam pulled his hands back, the bracelets hummed with power, then slammed together, trapping him. His shoulders strained, but he couldn’t even twist his wrists, much less separate them.

“State your name and date of birth,” Sam said quietly, moving to stand beside him.

Steve had to swallow before he could say, “Steven Grant Rogers. Captain, United States Army. July 4, 1918.”

Sam glanced at Bucky, but Bucky never took his eyes from Steve’s face. After a moment, Sam said, “Steven Grant Rogers, 04071918, you have confessed to treason against Unity. Is there any reason to believe you are incapable of a determination of free will?”

Steve barely paid attention to the words. He shook his head, memorizing the lines of Bucky’s face now as he’d done almost every day, from when they’d been children together.

Gathering his thoughts, he took a deep breath and said, “Bucky.”

Not to be derailed, Sam repeated, “Is there any reason —”

Steve forced himself to look at Sam, who seemed terribly uncomfortable, though he wasn’t shirking his duty at all. “What?”

A third time, Sam asked, “Is there any reason to believe you are incapable of a determination of free will?”

Steve shook his head, looking back at Bucky, whose face was still an expressionless mask, blue eyes cold, jaw set with resolve. Twice, Steve had found Bucky Barnes underneath the Winter Soldier, but not this time.

Heart sinking, he took a deep breath and said, “No. I’m... No.”

He’d fought for so long, it was almost a relief to think he was nearly through. Bucky was gone. Peggy was gone. _Everything_ was gone, and there was no place here for Steve.

Quietly, he said, “Do what you have to, Buck.”

Bucky’s right hand moved. He drew his pistol.

“Agent.” Sam turned his hand palm-up, though he didn’t quite reach out. “You’re his partner, Winter. You shouldn’t have to do this.”

Bucky shook his head. “For HYDRA,” he said steadily, leveling the pistol at Steve’s head. Steve wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t look away from the face of the man he trusted.

 _Loved_.

“Bucky...” Steve remembered the first kiss that was also his last, the promise of a dance, a future that was doomed from the start. Just as his future was doomed now. “Can I — Can I say something?”

Bucky hesitated.

“Please...” Steve glanced at Sam, adding, “Someone needs to hear this.”

It looked like Sam was going to nod, but he deferred to Bucky. Frowning, Bucky gave a quick nod. “Go ahead.”

“Your name,” Steve said quietly, looking into Bucky’s eyes once more, “is James Buchanan Barnes. You were born March tenth, 1917, to George and Winifred Barnes. You had three younger sisters: Rebecca, Alice, and Mary. You were a sergeant in the 107th, US Army, before joining the Howling Commandos. And we — we all thought you died.” He turned to Sam, whose dark eyes were wide. “Please. Don’t forget who he is. Help him remember.”

Slowly, Sam nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Steve took a deep breath and turned back to Bucky, whose hand was trembling. “Bucky? What’s —”

“Agent?” Sam interrupted sharply, taking a step forward as Bucky’s skin went ashen. Steve flinched away from the gun as it wavered. Bucky’s fingers twitched on the trigger, and Steve braced instinctively, though he knew it was futile. Bucky could hit a target from over a thousand yards away.

Bucky opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his eyes rolled back. He collapsed, body convulsing violently. The gunshot was deafeningly loud to Steve’s enhanced hearing, but the shot went wide, cracking into the window without shattering the reinforced glass.

“JARVIS, medical emergency, apartment twelve!” Sam shouted as he threw himself down, pinning Bucky’s right arm. He got the gun free just as the powerful convulsions threw him into the coffee table.

Steve forgot about his confession — his execution. He threw himself into a backwards roll, arching his spine, and twisted until he got his bound hands under his hips, though the effort strained his shoulders. He threw himself across Bucky, fighting the cuffs so he could grab hold of Bucky’s jaw. “Bucky! Bucky!”

“Get off him!” Sam shouted, grabbing Steve’s shoulder — not that he had any hope of moving Steve until he added, “I’m a medic!” Steve rolled away, and Sam dropped to his knees and shoved Bucky over onto his side. The convulsions were violent, and Sam barked at Steve, “Couch cushion! Now!”

Steve tore at the cushion and shoved it into Sam’s hands. The gun went flying, but Steve made no move to grab it. He didn’t give a damn about self-defense or escape — not when Bucky needed him.

Sam jammed the cushion under Bucky’s head — and that was it. He didn’t try to keep Bucky from biting or swallowing his tongue. He actually moved away, pausing only to shove the coffee table aside. It looked like Bucky was racked with pain, legs kicking blindly, back bowed, and Steve caught the sharp smell of waste. And Sam wasn’t helping _at all_.

“What are you doing?” Steve demanded, rushing for Bucky again, though Sam blocked him, and Steve didn’t dare run down the only medic he had on hand. _Yet._

“He has to ride it out,” Sam said in a steady voice that helped to calm Steve’s racing heart. He spoke with the sort of absolute certainty that only came from experts or fools, and Steve doubted Bucky — Winter — would have a fool at his side.

Bucky’s face had gone gray-blue. His throat worked, but it didn’t look like he was even breathing. He’d stopped flailing, and his limbs were stiff. Only his metal arm was moving, plates grinding and clicking, fingers spreading and curving into claws.

Steve took a step forward, only to have Sam grab his arm again. “Not yet.”

“But —”

“He’s not out of it yet,” Sam said more sharply. “And when he wakes up, he’s going to be disoriented. If you go pawing at him, you might scare him. Or trigger an attack.”

That more than anything convinced Steve to let Sam pull him clear. When Bucky’s tense body suddenly relaxed, Steve took a step, then stopped himself. “What should we do?”

Sam took hold of Steve’s shoulder. “We wait.” He gave a little shake, and when Steve met his eyes, he added, “I’m letting you stay here because you two are partners. Otherwise, you’d be locked up until someone decides what to do with you. Understand?”

Because they were partners? There were nuances there Steve wasn’t understanding, but he wasn’t about to ask — not while Sam was willing to let him stay.

“I’m sorry,” he said, letting Sam draw him back another couple of steps. Sam was the closest thing he had to an advocate here. Even if, in the end, he died for treason, at least he had another chance to try and help Bucky.


	17. Chapter 17

Blue eyes. Matte black gun sights. Cold emptiness weighing down the center of his chest. His finger, steady against a narrow trigger.

Winter reached out, but something enveloped him, dragging him back down into softness that smelled of bleach and warmth. Ice trickled into his veins.

He lifted his hand and felt a sting-shift-pull against his skin. When he opened his eyes, he saw an intravenous line in the back of his right hand. The room around him was painted soft blue, filled with quiet music and the smell of bleach and blood.

His recovery room. This was where he woke up after cryo, but... he hadn’t been in cryo, had he? His memories were too sharp, too chaotic, pulling him in all directions at once.

“Who’s monitoring?” he asked in a whisper that was all he could manage. He felt weak as a newborn kitten.

“I am, Agent Winter,” JARVIS answered. “May I notify your medical team that you’ve awakened?”

Winter wanted to sit up, but he knew better than to try unaided. Instead, he used his left hand to find the bed controls. It took immense concentration to find the correct button to raise the head of the bed. No fine motor control. That was a bad sign.

He shuffled through his most recent memories, but they were baffling. He remembered going to Long Island after being on a _date_ , of all things. A date with a beautiful man who called himself Winter’s partner.

_Steve._

Was the name real or was Winter’s broken brain manufacturing hallucinations? It wouldn’t be the first time. He breathed deeply, looking over at the IV machine. Fluids. Nutrients. Vitamins. How long had he been out?

Instead of asking, though, he said, “Sitrep, Steve Rogers.” Better to know now if he needed to go straight into cryo or if his hallucinations were actually real.

“Steve Rogers, 04071917, is remanded to your custody, Agent Winter. He is currently confined to your containment cell per instructions from Agent Wilson, pending execution for treason.”

“Hold execution,” Winter said thoughtlessly, for the first time in his life. He stared up at the ceiling, unable to believe he’d even said those words. _What’s wrong with me?_

“Execution held. I have notified Agent Wilson,” JARVIS reported in a steady voice that reminded Winter why he liked the AI so much. _Nothing_ fazed JARVIS — not after decades of putting up with Tony’s antics.

Breathing more easily, Winter asked, “What’s my current medical status?”

“Between twenty and twelve hours ago, you suffered three prolonged grand mal seizures and several cerebral hemorrhages. You have been free of medical incidents for the last eleven hours forty-four minutes. There is no long-term damage detected.”

“Seizures.” Winter frowned. “That’s new. Any record of seizures in my medical history?”

“No, Agent.”

Winter grunted and lifted his left hand to the table that was rolled up beside the bed, but intermittent tremors made the metal plates rattle up and down his arm. He went to twist around so he could use his right hand to pour himself a cup of water, but a worried chirp interrupted.

With a soft hiss of wheels on linoleum, DUM-E rolled up. The robot’s grappling arm lifted the carafe and poured water into the cup, over the table, and onto the floor. The robot set the carafe down again with an apologetic whistle, armature sinking low in embarrassment.

“It’s okay, pal,” Winter said, using both hands to pick up the dripping cup. He took a few slow, careful sips before realizing what an odd thing that was for him to say. _Pal?_ He’d never said _pal_ in his life, had he?

“Pardon me, Agent,” JARVIS said. “Agent Wilson is requesting entry. What shall I tell him?”

Winter was tempted to refuse, but Sam was an Avenger, even a probationary one. In fact... Winter finished the water and set the cup in the puddle dripping over the table’s edge. “Send him in.”

Sam walked into the room, dressed in bright, casual clothes, smiling warmly. He had an oversized envelope in his hands. “Hey. How you feeling?”

“Stable,” Winter said automatically. And then, because Sam was Sam and not one of Winter’s distant team of neurologists, he added, “Better. You?”

“I’m good, thanks. My mom’s in town.”

Winter nodded slowly. “Broadway, right? She was seeing shows?” he asked warily, not sure if he could trust his memory or not.

“That’s right.”

Relieved, Winter nodded again. “Thanks for... for not executing Steve.”

Sam touched his fist to his heart in a quick salute. “Got a few minutes to talk?”

Winter pushed the bed all the way upright. “Have a seat.”

Sam wheeled a chair close to the bed, closer than anyone else might have. He hadn’t been around Winter long enough to learn to fear his dissonance. That innocence was a balm.

“I put Steve in your containment cell,” Sam said once he was settled. “I also had JARVIS secure the records of his surrender under my private seal. We’re the only ones who have access to it.”

 _Clever_. Winter nodded, wishing he knew Sam better. He had no idea what Sam was thinking, and this was a matter of the highest security. Sam should have remanded Steve to the World Security Council for investigation — or executed Steve himself. That he hadn’t meant a lot.

“Thanks,” Winter said quietly.

“He’s your partner,” Sam said with a light shrug. “This is a whole lot more complicated than you or I know. Better to take a little extra time so we’re sure we know all the facts.”

Relieved, Winter managed a genuine smile. That was the perfect way to think about it. They were taking their time, doing their due diligence, rather than rushing to judgment — even though he’d fully _intended_ to carry out the execution just yesterday.

“You’re right. Keep him in custody for now. Under your authority only,” he added, looking into Sam’s eyes.

Sam nodded once, gravely. “Yes, Agent.”

Satisfied, Winter asked, “Anything else to report?”

“A, uh” — Sam’s eyes narrowed — “favor, if you don’t mind.”

Winter’s suspicious, paranoid side growled in protest. Would Sam really try to use Steve as blackmail or leverage? Flatly, Winter asked, “What?”

Moving slowly, Sam placed the envelope on top of Winter’s blanket. Winter flipped it over, opened the flap, and looked inside, expecting to see... well, he wasn’t certain. Some legal document awaiting his signature, maybe. Or a blackmail letter with terms that were printed instead of spoken aloud so there’d be no chance of JARVIS recording anything incriminating.

He _wasn’t_ expecting a glossy publicity photo of himself from this past Unification Day celebration.

“It’s for my mom,” Sam explained sheepishly. “Adelaide Wilson. A-D-E-L-A-I-D-E.”

Winter grinned and put out his hand. “Pen.”

Sam took a pen from his pocket and handed it over. “Thanks.”

Across the bottom of the photo, he wrote: _To Adelaide, with loyalty and hope for a bright future for all._

“I need to go into cryo for a few months. Maybe a year,” he said as he added his usual signature scrawl. “Afterwards, set up a meeting with her, so I can meet her.” He offered Sam the pen and the photo.

Sam’s grin was summer-bright. “Thanks,” he said, glancing down at the photo. “That’ll make...” He trailed off, smile fading. His eyes flicked up to meet Winter’s.

“What?” Winter frowned worriedly. His hand was shaky, but not so shaky that he couldn’t write.

“Nothing.” Sam slid the photo back into the envelope. “I just remembered, by next year, she might have me partnered off. As in, married by a rabbi and everything.”

 _He’s lying_. Winter stared at Sam, tempted to demand the truth, but something held him back. Maybe fear of what Sam might say about Steve.

Instead, Winter casually said, “Tell her you’re waiting to invite me to the ceremony.”

The smile returned, bright as ever. “I’ll hold you to that.” He pushed the chair back and asked, “Are you going into cryo soon?”

“It’ll be a few days. Maybe a couple of weeks,” Winter guessed. “I’ll have to heal up first. Regain my strength.”

Sam nodded. “Okay. I’ll stop by later tonight or tomorrow then. Depends how late Mom keeps me out on the town.”

Winter laughed softly. “Party animal?”

“You have _no idea_. She could wear _you_ out.”

“Tell her I look forward to it.” Winter watched Sam turn and head for the door. “And Sam...”

Sam turned back. “Agent?”

“Watch over Steve for me.”

Sam pressed his fist to his heart again, then left without another word.

 

~~~

 

Steve was used to downtime. Hell, being a soldier — even Captain America — was ninety percent standing around while the brass planned and ten percent overwhelming excitement. But he was used to downtime _with people_. He wanted Bucky at his side. Jones and Dernier gossiping in French. Clerks running for cover whenever Howard blew up his latest experiment.

What he _wasn’t_ used to was isolation.

So he slept, uncomfortable as it was, and he occupied himself with calisthenics until he remembered he had no water. And no facilities. And of course _thinking_ about it made him very conscious of his too-fast, too-efficient metabolism, until he forced himself to doze off again.

The whisper of sound, so soft an unenhanced human wouldn’t have even heard of, was loud enough to snap him out of sleep. He sat up, then scrambled to his feet as the concealed door recessed, still missing chips of paint from where he’d tried to punch his way out.

When the door slid to the side, Sam stepped forward. Instead of the tactical gear and stun baton from the near-execution, he wore a bright blue shirt and khakis, and the only “gear” he carried was a pair of sunglasses hanging from the neckline.

“Can we do this the easy way?” he asked, a faint smile on his lips.

Steve put up his hands and backed up against the far wall. “I don’t want trouble. Is Bucky all right?”

Sam nodded, leaning down to pick up a low cardboard box off the floor. Steve’s stomach let out a rumble at the smell of fresh pizza. Sam slid the box into the cell, then moved two large paper cups, rattling with ice, into the cell.

“Uh, I’ll need —”

“Already got you covered,” Sam said, moving a cardboard box and a roll of plastic bags into the cell. “Best I can do, sorry.”

Steve bit back a sigh and said, “The Howling Commandos had two talents: causing trouble and digging latrines. A box is a luxury.”

To his surprise, Sam laughed, low and hearty. “Some things never change, except maybe the shovels get a little lighter and more portable. Come help me with this.”

He turned away, and Steve crossed the cell so he could take hold of a low, heavy pad, almost like a canvas-covered mattress without springs. He and Sam wrestled it through the doorway, and while Steve got it to the far corner of the cell, Sam tossed in a pillow and blanket.

“Does Bucky know you’re doing this?”

Sam nodded, tossing a canvas bag inside. “You can use the bag for laundry. I’ll come back a couple times a day. There’s also a toothbrush in there, one you can’t file into a weapon.”

Steve blinked. “I...”

“Look, I know you don’t _need_ a weapon,” Sam said bluntly, leaning against the entryway. “I can have JARVIS tranq you twice a day while I bring in food and take out the trash, or you can _not_ attack, and we can talk. This cell was only designed to hold the Winter Soldier for a few hours, until his medical team could respond. It’s not meant for long-term.”

 _No plumbing._ Steve put up his hands again and tried to look as harmless as possible. He was pretty bad at it, despite twenty-five years of actually _being_ harmless. “I turned myself in for Bucky. If I’m here and not” — he tried not to hesitate, but his voice gave a little hitch — “dead, it’s because he wants me here. Right?”

One of Sam’s eyebrows twitched up. “That’s right.”

“Then I’ll stay. No trouble. You have my word. Just... please,” Steve added more softly. “What’s going on with him?”

Sam looked behind himself — evidently he took Steve at his word — then leaned down to get a white envelope off the floor. “He autographed this earlier.”

Steve took the envelope and opened it. Inside was... God, it was a photograph of Bucky, but like Steve had never seen him before. His hair looked messy at first, but it framed his face in soft strands, a few of them caught in his stubble. Lampblack had been smudged around his eyes, and his blue irises glowed like cold fire against the shadow. His mouth was cocked up at one corner just a tiny bit, enough to hint at a smile that made Steve’s pulse race. His body armor was the one-sleeved strappy leather outfit that Steve had seen months earlier, when Rumlow had claimed he had no idea who the Winter Soldier was.

Sam’s polite cough barely disguised his laugh. “The writing, Rogers.”

Steve had to force himself to look at the rest of the photo — not necessarily a good idea, considering how tight Bucky’s leather pants were. He felt an unreasonable stab of jealousy, reading, “To Adelaide —”

This time, Sam didn’t bother with the cough. “You’re getting distracted. Check the signature.”

Down at the bottom was a familiar loopy scrawl. “Bucky — _Oh._ ”

Sam slowly nodded. “He didn’t notice. And I didn’t tell him.”

“What?” Steve frowned, anger rising inside him. “He —”

“If he knew,” Sam snapped, “he’d either demand to go into cryo _right now_ , before he’s healed up from those seizures, or his brain would tear itself apart trying to remember everything all at once.”

Steve’s anger left him in a rush. He looked down at that signature — _Bucky Barnes_ — then back up at Sam.

“That’s what you’ve been trying to do, isn’t it?” Sam asked bluntly. “I checked the records. You keep trying to trigger his memories.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Steve said, shaking his head. “But I want him to remember.”

Sam put up a hand. “I know, I know.” He gently reclaimed the photograph and envelope.

“I _need_ him to remember,” Steve pleaded. “Sam —”

“‘No citizen may interfere with another citizen’s free will,’” Sam quoted.

“But he’s not _himself_.”

Sam’s sigh had an exasperated edge. “Do you ever stop to _listen_ , Rogers, or do you just rush ahead?”

Steve wanted to grab hold of Sam and shake him until he started talking _about Bucky_ , but that wouldn’t help. “Usually rush ahead.”

“Well, shut up and let me finish.” Sam leveled an expectant glare at Steve. After a few tense seconds, Sam relaxed and asked, “With what you know of his history, do you think the Winter Soldier is capable of a determination of free will?”

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it, eyes going wide as the meaning behind Sam’s words sank in.

Sam gave a slow nod. “You give it some thought. I’ll be back in a few hours. If you get sick of the quiet, just ask JARVIS to play some tunes. I’ve authorized it.”

“Thanks,” Steve said absently, turning away from the door. He was hungry and thirsty and needed to put that box to use, but more important than all of that was the knowledge that he had an ally. He wasn’t alone.


	18. Chapter 18

“JARVIS, light ’em up,” Tony said as soon as he stepped out of the elevator into the common room. “Who’s on the line?”

The curved window went opaque, blacking out the starry lights of the Manhattan skyline below. Five projections appeared: Pepper, dressed in a tuxedo. Clint, in pajamas, of all things, not that he could surprise Tony anymore. Rhodey in his flight suit — Tony gave him a quick salute and got a very military sigh in return. Bruce was in his lab four floors down, but he usually preferred to remote in for meetings. And Natasha... was a wash of static?

“JARVIS, clear that up,” Tony ordered.

“Transmission is audio only, Citizen,” JARVIS said.

“I’m on my way up,” Natasha’s voice said from the static waterfall. “I’m not turning on video pickup in the elevator.”

A hiss from the elevator banks made him turn, expecting to see Nat, but it was Sam who walked out. “You’re not Nat,” Tony observed.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “There a reason you thought I was?”

“She’s in an elevator. Or maybe on top of one. _Damn covert agents!_ ” Tony shouted at the static waterfall.

“Civilian,” Nat and Rhodey said in chorus. Sam just smirked and went to an armchair, where he sat down so casually, it was obviously posed. Tony guessed it was for Natasha’s benefit, though he wasn’t a hundred percent certain. Sam and Clint had bonded more than once on the firing range at the Catskills HQ.

“Anyone who’s here in person, drinks are on me,” Tony announced, heading for the bar. Pepper shot him a look of disapproval, one that he ignored. This was a three-drink-night if ever there was one. “Sam?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Sam said, waving his hand. He was studiously not looking over at the elevators.

“So what was so important that you called this meeting instead of coming to the benefit dinner with me, Tony?” Pepper asked bluntly.

“JARVIS, secure the line. Avengers protocols,” Tony instructed. Rhodey’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but Clint’s went wide with surprise. A red border flashed around each window.

“Avengers communications protocols initiated, Citizen,” JARVIS reported. “The line is secure.”

Tony nodded and poured a triple just to save himself the hassle of walking back and forth between the couch and the bar. “Yesterday, the Winter Soldier had a neurological episode.”

“Multiple grand mal seizures,” Bruce explained, looking down at his computer. “There were cerebral hemorrhages, but he’s recovering from the damage as expected, with no lingering after-effects.”

“What happened?” Pepper asked, worry darkening her voice. “Do you know what caused it?”

Bruce nodded. “Ongoing neurological treatment delays, recalibration of his arm’s interface, and severe cognitive memory stress.”

“Cognitive memory stress?” Rhodey asked.

Tony glanced over at Sam, then said, “JARVIS, HYDRA protocol twelve, security override, my authorization.”

Rhodey frowned. “What’s protocol twelve? How do _you_ have authorization?”

“Now you do, too,” Tony said with a casual wave of his hand. Ice clinked, nearly hiding the hiss of the elevator delivering Natasha. “JARVIS, add all current participants, yadda yadda. Nat, get yourself a drink. Everyone, check your email.”

Quietly, Sam asked Tony, “You’ve never actually put together a presentation in your life, have you?”

“College, first year. They threw me out when the prototype holoprojector caught fire.”

Sam shook his head and looked to Natasha instead as she sat down nearby. “How was London?”

Natasha’s lips curved up in a very faint smile. “Rainy.” Only then did she get the phone out of her pocket so she could check the files — a very telling indicator of her thoughts on Sam.

 _And another romance blooms,_ Tony thought smugly, sipping his drink. Rhodey had bet on Clint and Nat, not knowing that Clint already had a partner in the shadows. Now he owed Tony a hundred credits.

For a few minutes, everything was quiet as the rest of the team skimmed the files. Rhodey was the first to break the silence, asking, “Why are you telling us this?”

Tony glanced at Sam, whose face was carefully neutral. No help there. Smiling at Rhodey, Tony explained, “Because we have Steve Rogers in a holding cell.”

_“What?” “How?” “But this says — nineteen eighteen?”_

Tony smirked at the shouts, flinched at Natasha’s pointedly raised eyebrow, and said, “He was in cryo,” hand-waving the details of what little he and Sam had been able to put together from Winter’s poor conversational skills.

“A white man from last century... He hasn’t _said_ anything to you, Sam, has he? Anything offensive?” Pepper asked delicately. Any excuse for her to use her degree in social integration and diversity awareness.

This time, both of Sam’s eyebrows came up. “Actually, not even a hint,” he said. “But he’s been out of the ice for, what, six, seven months now?”

“That’s hardly enough time to integrate,” Pepper murmured.

Tony considered pointing out who Rogers had been associating with to date, but they had bigger problems than treason. “Integration isn’t the issue,” he said, getting things back on track. “It’s his relationship with the Winter Soldier.”

“Relationship?” Clint asked.

Natasha drew in a sharp breath. “He’s the reason for Winter’s cognitive memory stress,” she said, glancing at Tony for confirmation. He nodded.

“ _Relationship_ , relationship.” Clint swore softly. “Just how much of a —”

“They’re partners,” Sam interrupted. “Like this wasn’t complicated enough.”

“Oh,” Pepper whispered sadly. “And Agent Winter doesn’t remember...?”

“Not consciously,” Sam said with a quick shake of his head.

“His brain is trying to reconstruct the memory paths,” Bruce said, taking off his glasses. “Something is interfering — probably all the damage from how long it’s been since his last treatment.”

“So Agent Winter goes into treatment, comes back, remembers... What’s the problem?” Rhodey asked, shaking his head slowly.

So they were up to the treason part after all. “JARVIS,” Tony said. “Surveillance file, Rogers, prep shared display, no local copies.”

Rhodey sat up sharply at that. “What are you showing us?” he asked suspiciously, probably aware of his security clearance. Sometimes, knowing too much was more dangerous than not enough.

“You’ll see. JARVIS, share display.” With a flourish, Tony activated the living room’s holoprojection system and sent individual displays over to Sam and Natasha.

“Sharing display, Citizen,” JARVIS said, and tablets and computers throughout the group chimed.

“Start with file one.” As the rebels’ raid on the data aggregation facility began to play, Tony narrated, trying not to embellish too much. The last thing he needed was someone — say, Natasha — deciding that Rogers was too much of a liability and taking it upon herself to eliminate him.

In fact... maybe it was a _good_ thing Sam had locked Rogers away in Winter’s cell. That cell would survive even if the building was bombed, though the ride down into the rubble pile wouldn’t be all too comfortable.

“We need to notify the WSC,” Rhodey said before they were even halfway through the presentation.

“No,” Sam answered as Tony said, “Not on your damn life!”

 _“Why?”_ Rhodey demanded, genuine anger in his voice for the first time.

Natasha held up a hand, looking from Tony to Sam and back. “Agent Winter has claimed authority in this. Hasn’t he.” It wasn’t a question.

Tony nodded, looking at Rhodey’s holo. “We’re to take no further action until he’s back out of cryo.”

“It’s Winter’s basic right to free will as a citizen,” Sam said quietly.

Rhodey sat back as though slapped. _“What?”_

“Steve Rogers is the key to restoring Winter’s memory,” Bruce said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Legally speaking, he’s an asset that _must_ be preserved until Winter’s identity is established or until Steve is deemed no longer of import to Winter regaining his ability to decide his own path.”

“Oh, come on.” Rhodey scoffed. “That’s just as bad as the old ‘following orders’ defense.”

Pepper shook her head, typing quickly before saying, “If Bruce is right, he’s _essential_ to Winter’s identity. The law is clear. Without his intervention, Winter may be compromised — _may have been_ compromised for decades.”

“Technically, that’s a determination for Alexander Pierce to make,” Bruce said. “He’s Agent Winter’s medical proxy of record.”

“So get Director Pierce on the line,” Rhodey said. “Let’s find out what _he_ wants to do.”

“I’ve put in a couple of calls to him,” Tony said with a shrug. “Still waiting to hear back.”

“Was Director Pierce appointed or did Agent Winter choose him?” Pepper asked, typing some more. “I can’t find a record of it.”

“Winter’s choice,” Tony answered.

Pepper frowned. “There’s precedent for a court-appointed guardian if the judgment of the person in question is potentially compromised.”

“He’s Winter’s commanding officer. Who else was he going to pick?” Tony asked. “After Pierce, _I’m_ the closest thing he’s got to a friend. Well, me and the bots. And nobody wants DUM-E as a legal proxy.”

Natasha lowered her voice, saying, “You _are_ his friend.”

Tony waved a hand, refusing to dig into those feelings while on a holoconference with something like eighty percent of the team. “Winter picked him. Are _you_ going to tell him he’s not rational enough to decide his own fate?”

“We don’t have to tell _him_ ,” Bruce said. “We can file legal —”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Clint interrupted. “Just take it slow. _If_ Winter can’t make that sort of decision for himself, it’s on us to do the right thing for him. He’s _our_ C.O.”

The nods all around made Tony feel better about this whole mess — right up until Rhodey sighed and said, “Still, we can’t just leave a traitor running loose. It’s on us to push this up the chain of command, which means handing Rogers over to Pierce. We’ll just... recommend holding off on his execution until we figure this all out.”

“Actually,” Sam cut in, “Agent Winter has already turned Rogers over to _my_ custody with orders to hold him until further notice.”

“Then _you_ need to turn him over to the World Security Council,” Rhodey said.

Tony shook his head. “Hey. Don’t —”

“I can’t do that, Colonel,” Sam said, a hint of wariness coming into his voice.

Rhodey’s eyes narrowed. “And if I make that an order?”

Sam shook his head. “I’m an Avenger, Colonel. Agent Winter’s orders take precedence.”

Jaw clenched, Rhodey protested, “ _I’m_ an Avenger —”

“Technically, you’re the military liaison to the Avengers,” Tony said apologetically. Rhodey’s look of betrayal hit Tony like a punch. Quietly, Tony said, “Sorry, buddy.”

Rhodey exhaled sharply. “Look, it’s not that I _want_ anything to happen to the Winter Soldier. The opposite, in fact. But Agent Winter can’t pardon treason — not even for his partner.”

“No,” Natasha said, drawing all eyes with the strength of her voice. “But he can postpone a traitor’s execution by conscripting them into service.” She tipped her head expectantly, as though daring anyone to challenge her.

After a few seconds, Rhodey said, “That’s never been tested in court.”

“Are you challenging the Winter Soldier’s authority, Colonel?”

He gave her a look full of disappointment.

She smiled serenely. “I didn’t think so.”

 

~~~

 

The worst part of confinement was that Steve couldn’t gauge the passage of time, so he had no idea how long it was before he heard the cell door slide open. He sat up, though he didn’t stand, preferring instead to let Sam feel at ease, like there was no danger of attack at all. Sam didn’t need to know just how quickly Steve could get to his feet, cross the cell, barrel through him, and be out into the antechamber.

Sam stopped in the doorway as he had last time. “You surrendered to the Winter Soldier,” he said without preamble.

Steve got to his feet, moving slowly, all his senses on high alert. “Yes.”

“Do you want to recant your confession?”

 _Yes or no?_ Steve wondered, searching Sam’s face for any hint of what answer he was expecting. Steve didn’t want to be guilty, and he certainly didn’t want to face execution again, but he had to trust Sam. He had to trust Bucky.

Sam gave nothing away, and Steve, knowing what little he did about Unity, finally fell back on the raw truth as he had so often. “No.”

Sam’s nod was barely there, but it took a weight off Steve’s chest all the same. “By order of the Winter Soldier, you are conscripted into the service of the Winter Soldier, the Avengers, and Unity. Do you accept or do you choose execution?”

Steve had to clasp his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking. “I accept,” he managed to say, glancing past Sam in hopes of catching a glimpse of Bucky, though the hallway looked to be empty.

Sam jerked his head back toward the antechamber doors, then turned and started walking away, saying, “With me, Agent Rogers.”

The surge of hope in Steve’s chest brought him back through the months and years and decades to when Dr. Erskine had stamped his enlistment form 1A. Steve hurried after Sam, following him down the hall and up a broad, curving flight of stairs. Outside, the sky was dark, with the lights of the city spread in a magnificent view that would have captured Steve’s attention any other night.

The staircase led up to a spacious open living room with a kitchen on one side and an even larger bar on the other. A woman at on the sofa, her short red hair almost black in the dim light, watching him and Sam with sharp eyes.

“Agent Natasha Romanoff,” Sam said, nodding at her before indicating Steve. “Probationary Agent Rogers.”

Five minutes ago, Steve had been awaiting execution. Now, he was meeting the rest of the team? “Ma’am,” he said with a polite nod.

One perfect red brow arched.

Sam glanced at Steve. _“Agent._ ”

 _Shit_. Biting back the polite instinct to apologize, Steve said, “Agent.”

“Natasha, you got this?” Sam asked. She nodded, ominously silent, and he turned back to Steve. “You’re next door to me again. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Reminding himself to keep it formal — for this modern world, anyway — Steve said, “Yes, Agent Wilson.”

Natasha stayed silent until Sam had disappeared into one of the elevators. Then she gestured to the kitchen, saying, “If you’re hungry, leftovers are in the fridge.”

Steve had polished off the pizza ages ago, but he suspected this might be a test, and he didn’t know how to pass. “No, thank you” — _ma’am_ — “Agent.”

Her eyebrow twitched up, but so did one corner of her mouth. “Go eat,” she said. Commanded, really. A little surprised at that, Steve headed for the kitchen.

She trailed after him, and every instinct in him screamed for him to turn and keep her in his line of sight. She was as beautiful as Peggy, as deadly as Bucky, and as enigmatic as the Winter Soldier. And like the Winter Soldier, even in the safety of headquarters, she was carrying two guns half-hidden under her shirt. Probably more.

He took a couple of cartons out of the fridge, then ransacked the drawers for silverware. He was careful to keep well away from the block of knives on the other side of the stove. Natasha sat down on a bar stool on the other side of the counter. He didn’t feel comfortable sitting next to her, so he stayed standing beside the sink, facing her, and tried to convince himself he wasn’t treating the kitchen island as a shield.

“It must be difficult,” Natasha said as Steve took his first bite of cold noodles. He swallowed quickly, trying not to choke.

“Excuse me?”

“Seeing Winter rather than the man you remember.”

Steve didn’t try to hide his flinch. He looked down and twisted his fork in the noodles. “Bucky. Yeah.”

Natasha nodded, looking at him sympathetically. “It’s only been a couple of years for you, hasn’t it?”

“A couple —” Surprised she’d make such a big mistake, he shook his head, leaving the fork sticking out of the box. “No. Seven months. Maybe eight.”

Her eyebrows rose. “So soon,” she murmured. “The last time you saw him —”

“No,” he interrupted, jerking back from the counter. He saw Bucky fall from the train every damn time he closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He couldn’t _explain_ it. Describe it. Relive it through his own words.

She nodded steadily. “Before that, then. You were in the war together.”

He took a deep breath and picked up the fork. “Yeah. The Howling Commandos, they called us.”

“That’s not an official designation.”

He couldn’t help but laugh. “Nothing official about us. We were from all different countries. All different units. I... well, I guess we were like the Avengers.”

The way her eyes flickered was so subtle, even Steve might have missed it, with his sharp vision, if he hadn’t looked up at just the right moment. Then she nodded again, asking, “What was he like then?”

“In the Commandos?” When she nodded, he paused to take another bite — he really was starving — and to gather his thoughts. He thought she’d appreciate Bucky’s skill in combat, but when he finally spoke, what came out was, “He was different. He smiled less. And when he did, it was always... sad.” He sighed, thinking that _angry_ was closer to the truth.

“War changes people,” she said softly. “Didn’t it change you?”

“I never liked bullies.”

She shook her head. “Are you also sad?”

“Angry.” He met her eyes again. “And tired. So tired, the only thing that keeps me going is that I’m too damn angry to stop fighting.”

“But you were angry before the war.”

He blinked in surprise. “I... suppose, yeah. Back in Brooklyn, there were a whole lot of bullies.”

“And Bucky? How did he feel about them?”

His lips twitched up, and he looked at the dark windows across the living room. “I think,” he said slowly, “Bucky was more worried about me _fighting_ the bullies. I’d start fights, but he ended them.”

She smiled. “He still does.”

Steve scooped up some more noodles and muttered, “That’s good. I think...” He bit about half the noodles off his fork. “I keep seeing glimpses of _Bucky_ in him. Like he’s still there, somewhere deep inside.”

“Such as?” she prompted.

“His smile, when he’s relaxed and happy. The way he laughs.” He dragged the fork through the noodles, frowning. “Other times, he’s the Bucky from the war. Focused and grim.” Then he shook his head and stabbed the fork into the noodles so he could turn to the fridge to get a drink. “I thought at first it was _because_ of the war, but some of the guys — the ones who were captured with him — they said it was...”

_Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-seven._

“Steve?”

He shook off the memory and grabbed a beer before turning back to Natasha. The fridge door swung closed. “Sorry.”

She tipped her head, and the light caught coppery highlights in her rich red hair. “Where’d you go?”

Steve’s anger flared — not at her but at the memory of that rainy day only a couple of years ago, by his calendar. “They weren’t going to rescue him. They said it was too dangerous.” He opened the bottle and took a quick drink. “Howard and Peggy — uh, Howard Stark and Peggy Carter?”

She nodded, unsurprised. Interesting. So she knew that much of his history.

He took another drink and got back on track. “Howard was... he was crazy enough to fly me behind enemy lines, right past their guns, so I could find Bucky. And when I did...” His hand was shaking. He put the bottle down before he could shatter the glass. “This HYDRA scientist had been experimenting on him. Arnim Zola.” He spat out the name, remembering Zola all too well. Every damned time that bastard had crossed Steve’s path, he’d left tragedy and destruction in his wake. “That — that’s what changed him. Whatever Zola did to him.”

A quiet sigh drew him back to the present. When he met Natasha’s eyes, she said, “But you loved him, even after.”

Her soft words were a kick in his solar plexus. He looked down, eyes closed, and gave a quick, jerky nod. There was no sense in hiding it — not from Natasha, not from himself. “Yes. He’s always... He’s always been my center. No matter what I did, no matter how far I went or how much trouble I got in, Bucky always pulled me back.”

“You still love him, even now, as Winter.”

“I don’t...” Steve turned the beer bottle on the counter, watching condensation drip down the sides. “I don’t know him. But yeah.”

“Do you think you’ll file your partnership with the government?” she asked with a sly smile.

“What are you, a _shadkhnte_?”

It was her turn to sit back with a surprised blink. “Excuse me?”

“You’re playing matchmaker.”

Another blink, eyebrows hidden under the fall of her hair. “You’re Jewish?”

Steve braced for scorn, for the insults he’d heard growing up, but gave a defiant nod. “Yeah. Or half, anyway. My dad was Irish Catholic.”

But all she said was, “Oh,” before glancing at the food. “Sorry. We didn’t know. If you have any dietary restrictions, tell JARVIS.”

“That’s... Thank you.” He nodded, then shook his head, probably betraying just how confused he really was. “I put a ‘C’ on my dog tags because, you know, people —”

“I know,” she interrupted gently. “It still happens, though it’s not as common as it was pre-U. Has someone said something to you?”

“What? No.” Steve shook his head and smiled. “I haven’t... I haven’t said anything to anyone. Bucky knows — or _knew_ , I guess...” Another sad loss, one that tugged at Steve’s heart. Bucky had never said an unkind word about all the Jewish food Steve’s mom, Sarah, would cook or how Steve had stopped going to church after his bar mitzvah.

“You can’t leave the Tower unescorted, but if you need to go to synagogue, Sam can take you with him.”

“Sam?”

Her smile was soft, though brief. “Agent Wilson?”

“No, I know. He’s Jewish?”

She nodded. “He doesn’t keep strictly kosher, but we’ve got some alternatives. Turkey bacon, that sort of thing.”

“Huh.” That was good to know — and proof, not that Steve needed any by now, that his HYDRA and Unity’s were two very different things.

He looked down at his food, trying to remember the last time he’d worried about keeping kosher, but he came up blank. And his last time in synagogue — or a church, for that matter — had been when he’d gone to demand a cure for all of his illnesses, not for himself but so he could join the army, like his dad. Like Bucky.

Steve met Natasha’s eyes and asked, a bit desperately, “When can I see him?”

“I assume you mean Bucky, not Sam,” she teased gently. When he frowned at her, she sighed and said, “Only with his permission.”

Steve had no way to understand the nuances of Unity’s laws, but he had to try. “I’m his partner. His next-of-kin. I have the right to see him,” he said, hoping like hell that he was getting this “partner” thing right. And that it wasn’t exactly a lie.

“I’ll ask him, but as of right now, he has another medical proxy on file. You’ll just have to wait.” She shook her head. “For now, finish up. I need to get you back to your quarters.”


	19. Chapter 19

Winter snapped awake at the first sharp rap on the door. Only one person knocked like that, and he felt himself smile as he called, “Come in!”

The door opened just enough for Natasha to slip inside; she’d never liked being backlit in a doorway, framed like a silhouette used for target practice.

“Lights to twenty percent,” Winter said, and JARVIS obliged, revealing Natasha standing at the foot of the bed. Left-handed, Winter raised the bed. When he flexed his right hand, he felt the tug of skin that had healed around the intravenous line. “When did you get back?”

“Three hours ago.” She gestured at the chair Sam had pulled up next to the bed. DUM-E, probably thinking she was waving at him, chirped a hopeful greeting at her. She diverted to pat his grappling armature. “I see you’ve escaped Tony’s lab,” she told the robot. “Are you and Winter having fun?”

DUM-E’s answer was a quick succession of beeps as its armature bounced up and down.

“They sneak into my medical room every time,” Winter explained. “I like the company.”

“Mmm. Speaking of company...” She went to the chair and sat down, with a hopeful DUM-E rolling after her. “Agent Rogers is asking to see you.”

Winter frowned, and the plates on his left arm whirred as his signal circuitry misfired. “You went to my cell?”

The way she glanced down all but screamed _evasion_. “We met over a late dinner.”

Sharp, hot pain seared through Winter’s chest and into his gut like a gunshot. Blood roared in his ears, and the sensory feedback loop in his arm lit fireworks inside his head. _“He’s mine,”_ he growled.

Eyes wide, she held up her hands and sat back. “It was a chance for me to find out what he knows, Agent. That’s all.”

 _Jealousy_.

Winter exhaled sharply, only then realizing that was what he was feeling, for the first time in his life — or memory. He forced himself to ignore it and asked, “What did you learn?”

“He’s a good person. He reminds me of you.”

“That’s opinion, not fact,” he pointed out, ignoring the deep satisfaction he felt at her words.

Her smirk made him wonder if she knew what was going on inside him. She’d always been better than him at reading people. Then, all business, she said, “His timeline is off.” She shifted in her seat so she could take a phone from her pocket. Tapping on the screen, she said, “He thinks he was rescued seven months ago. By our best guess, it was more than two years.”

She pulled up a holofile and handed over the phone. Winter rested it on his lap to minimize the awkwardness of his shaking hands. He scanned the file: an arctic explorer ship monitoring the slow reversal of global warming had reported finding what it thought was a pre-U transport locked in the ice. The captain suspected it was a submarine, but Winter thought otherwise, judging by the description of the “long, blunt-pointed sail, like a manta ray’s fin,” not that he had much experience with submarines.

And then, the ship had vanished, all hands lost. No unusual storms. The Arctic Oceanic Safety Commission dispatched search and rescue missions but found no trace of the explorer.

But someone — Tony and JARVIS, Winter suspected — had dug deeper. An “accidental” fire at the weather monitoring station that had relayed the explorer’s initial call for assistance. Stolen ice coring equipment and a laser cutter that could shear through a metal hull like a hot knife through butter.

And a week later, a hospital in Longyearbyen, Norway, had been ransacked for life support equipment. A cardiac monitor. A ventilator. An intracranial pressure monitor. A very familiar list of equipment used for many medical reasons — including cryostasis revivification.

“They had him for almost two years before waking him,” Natasha said when Winter met her gaze. “What were they —”

“What were they doing to him...” Winter said softly, a ball of ice forming in his gut.

“Not any of the cryostasis procedures that affect memory,” Natasha said confidently. “He had near-perfect recall of details. His religion. His time in the war. His time with you.”

“How we met?”

She glanced away. “I didn’t want to ask.”

He nodded his thanks; he’d always appreciated her discretion. “If they weren’t altering his memories, they could have been trying behavior modification. Programming.” He was proud his voice came out so calm and steady.

“Or they were trying to use him to reverse-engineer the serum that made you both,” she countered. “It’s not easy to store viable biological samples from you. He’s probably the same way.”

Flickers of memory. Blood pumping out of his arm, through a tube, and into other bodies. Transplants of bone marrow and muscle tissue, fragments of his liver, a kidney. Every attempt rejected, ending in agonizing death for the test subjects and regeneration for him.

_And Steve?_

No. He would have said something. Or possibly not. If he’d been kept in a medical coma, his higher brain functions offline, he might not even know. The thought turned Winter’s stomach.

“It might have been interrogation,” Natasha suggested, pulling Winter out of his bleak thoughts.

“Wouldn’t he remember that?” Winter asked, though he hoped like hell she was right, because the alternatives were unthinkable.

Her shrug was slow. Uncertain. “When memory erasure studies were still legal, researchers made some... progress. And I can’t see concern for the law stopping the ones who found him.”

It was his turn to sigh in resignation. “Keep an eye on him.”

“Should I tell the others?” she asked with a significant glance up at the ceiling.

He shook his head. For all that JARVIS had been programmed with some advanced decision trees, no AI had the ability to tease out the subtler nuances of human behavior. “Do you think he’s a threat to us?”

“No.” She shrugged. “But if he _is_ programmed, he may not have a choice.”

Winter returned Natasha’s phone to her. “You watch him. You and Sam. Not Tony.”

Her brow twitched up questioningly as she tucked the phone into her pocket.

“He’s too close to this. His father _made_ Steve.”

She nodded and rose. “I’ll —”

“Natasha,” he interrupted, studying her in the dim light. She was in too much of a rush to leave. She was hiding something.

She paused, one hand on the back of her chair.

“What else did he say?”

This time, when she glanced down, her expression was soft. “He still loves you. He wants to see you.”

Winter took a deep breath. _He loves me_ , he thought,

“Watch him.”

She pressed her fist to her heart, nodded silently, and left.

 

~~~

 

Bad enough that half the time Steve woke up with a jolt of adrenaline and the absolute certainty that the world was about to get worse than his nightmares had already made it. He’d lived with his nightmares for a year now, stretching back to that day he’d been too late to keep Bucky from falling. Since coming to Avengers Tower, he’d learned to add uncertainty to the mix — an immediate sense of _Where am I?_ and _What’s gone wrong now?_

Warmth on his face and softness under his back told him he wasn’t in the cell, which was progress. He took a chance and cracked open one eye, bracing himself to move, to evade, to fling a pillow as a distraction, but no one was there. No threat.

Telling his heart to calm down, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. He breathed deeply, waiting for the nightmares to fade into the background — waiting for Bucky, dead, to turn into Winter, alive.

He finally got up and showered, then dressed in the jeans he’d taken from Bucky’s clothes racks and a Stark Industries T-shirt he found in the closet, though the shirt was a size too small. Remembering Bucky’s words, he left his feet bare.

The kitchen was empty, save one cupboard stocked with cans and boxes. Wanting an actual breakfast, Steve went to the door — then stopped, remembering the conditions of his most recent probation.

“Uh, JARVIS?”

“Good morning, Agent Rogers. How may I assist you?” the polite, invisible computer asked.

“I’m, uh... Is Agent Wilson around?”

“Yes, Agent Rogers. Would you like to speak with him?”

Steve turned and leaned against the wall next to the door. “Please.”

A few seconds later, Sam’s voice replaced JARVIS’, saying, “Rogers. What’s up?”

Steve tried not to interpret Sam’s brusque tone as hostility. “I was hoping to get some breakfast. I didn’t want to leave without you.”

“Good choice.”

After a heartbeat of silence, Steve thought about what Natasha had said last night. Guilt nearly silenced him, but he couldn’t let this apartment turn into a well-appointed prison. “Agent” — _What was her last name?_ — “Romanoff said to ask you about going to synagogue?”

This time, there was definite surprise in Sam’s voice when he answered, “Uh, yeah?”

Relieved, Steve asked, “Can I go with you? It’s been a long time. About seventy years.”

“Yeah,” Sam answered softly. “All right. Give me a few.”

“Thanks.”

Instead of Sam answering, it was JARVIS who asked, “Was there anything else, Agent?”

“No.” Steve looked down at himself. He couldn’t go to synagogue looking like this. “Wait. I, uh, don’t suppose Bu— Winter has a suit I can borrow?” he asked, heading for the bedroom to put on socks and his borrowed boots.

“On formal occasions, the Winter Soldier wears leather body armor. To my knowledge, he has never worn a suit,” JARVIS said, a hint of disapproval in his voice.

“He has,” Steve corrected softly. He looked up at the mirror over the chest of drawers, seeing not himself, the manufactured super-soldier with a scruffy beard, but the frail, sickly man he’d always be in his own mind, with Bucky standing at his side, jaw shaved smooth, hair slicked back, a ready smile lighting up his blue eyes. “He always looked so good in a suit or a uniform.”

“Should you convince him to follow more traditional rules of etiquette for formal occasions, I would be delighted to arrange a visit from a tailor.”

Steve laughed, leaning down to tie his boots. “Now _that’s_ a conspiracy I can get behind. Deal.”

“You have my eternal gratitude, Agent Rogers.”

“In that case, think you can help me find a razor? I’d rather not have this beard long enough to get used to it.”

“I can send an electric —” A knock interrupted JARVIS, who said, “Agent Wilson to see you.”

Steve sighed and hurried out of the bathroom. “Razor later,” he said, reluctant to keep Sam waiting. “Thanks, JARVIS.”

“My pleasure, Agent,” JARVIS answered.

The door opened at Steve’s touch, saving him the embarrassment of having to ask to be allowed out. He gave Sam a friendly smile — and then blinked and smiled more when he saw Sam wasn’t alone. The woman next to him was tall and black, with the most beautiful curly hair Steve had ever seen, framing a round face with a cheerful smile.

“Huh,” she said, arching a brow as she looked him up and down.

Even more self-conscious now, Steve nodded, stumbling as his brain tried to come up with what to say. “Ma’am. Citizen. Missus — I mean,” he babbled, thrown back to that very first time he’d talked to Peggy. Judging by how this woman’s eyes sparked and Sam broke into a coughing fit, Steve was making an ass of himself this time, too.

The woman shot Sam a flat look, then smiled and held out her hand to Steve. “Citizen Adelaide Wilson,” she said, grasping his hand with strength and confidence. “Please, call me Addie.”

“Steve Rogers. Just Steve,” he corrected. “Are you Sam’s sister?”

“Uh huh. We’re keeping him,” she said, shooting a sidelong glance at Sam, who sighed fondly.

“This is my _mom_ ,” he told Steve.

 _Oops._ “Sorry. I mean, not sorry —” Steve stopped himself, trying to muster what little confidence he’d once finally gained when talking to Peggy. Hell, he’d _kissed_ her — or, well, she’d kissed him.

But Addie just smiled and said, “Introductions later. Services start in less than twenty minutes.” She turned and headed for the elevator, beckoning for them to follow.

Sam looked at Steve and said, “You heard her.”

“I can’t go like this,” Steve protested, plucking at his T-shirt. Sam and his mother were both in button-down shirts and tailored pants.

“Do you own anything nicer?” Sam asked, hurrying his steps as the elevator doors opened down the hall. When Steve shook his head, Sam said, “Then you’re fine. So get moving. You don’t want to keep her waiting.”

 

~~~

 

“It wouldn’t be more effective to do this interrogation over a video link?” Natasha asked.

Winter shook his head, focused on forcing his right hand to cooperate with guiding the needle into his hip. His left hand was glitching too badly to even try using it; he’d done more than enough damage taking out his IV line.

“I have to be there, so” — he exhaled sharply at the sting — “so he sees me, with only the cell wall separating us.” He pulled out the needle and pushed gauze against the injection site, rubbing as if he could erase the pain. “It’s a a lot easier injecting yourself in combat, you know.”

“Adrenaline,” she said, and maybe something else, but Winter couldn’t hear it over the sudden rush in his ears. His heart jolted, trembled, shivered under the onslaught of chemical stimulants and narcotic analgesics that spread through his body like poison fog filling a valley. The cocktail was fatal to anyone without his enhanced physiology and would probably get him a stern note from his primary physician, but he’d spent enough time flat on his ass.

“Where’s Steve?” he asked, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. The room wavered and spun around him.

“Sam and Addie took him to temple.”

Winter glanced up at her. “Addie?”

“Adelaide Wilson.” She smirked. “I reviewed the security footage. She _likes_ Steve. Looks like you’ve got competition.”

He had to clench his jaw against the surge of jealousy — of _fear_ that Steve would choose someone else, before Steve even had a chance to know him. “They’re secure?” he asked flatly.

“I authorized Sam to carry a taser disk and one of your tranquilizer guns.”

“Good.”

Once he could stand, he pulled on the T-shirt, jeans, and boots JARVIS’ robots had brought to the recovery room. He’d considered his uniform of body armor, but Natasha had advised casual disdain rather than overt threat. After all, they’d had their prisoner in custody for days. He had to know he had no hope of escaping.

But Winter wasn’t an idiot. Rumlow had survived having a burning building dropped on him; that warranted having more backup than just Natasha and a malfunctioning cybernetic arm. Two guns at his back and two knives in his boots solved that problem.

“All right,” he said, giving Natasha a brief, dry smile despite how the chemicals were singing in his veins. “Let’s go.”

 

~~~

 

The delicatessen was narrow and deep, with a long counter full of food right out of Steve’s childhood. He was seized with the urge to order a pound of everything so he could haul it all back to the Tower to share with Bucky, until he remembered he had no money.

“I, ah... I can’t afford this,” he whispered to Sam, who gave him an odd look.

“You’re an Avenger, like me,” Sam said, following Addie down to the far end of the line of customers. “We’ll expense it.”

“Expense it?”

“We’re basically working. Mom’s the surgeon general for the east-central continental region,” Sam said, amused, giving Steve a gentle push to get him moving. “She runs everything east of the Mississippi River, from the Gulf to the Great Lakes. Outbreak monitoring, vaccination programs, you name it.”

“Long Island?” Steve asked hopefully.

Sam took a couple of quick steps to catch up to Addie. “Yeah. Right, Mom? You know what’s going on with the Long Island cleanup?”

“Yes.” She turned away from the counter, eyebrows up, and asked, “What about it?”

“My mom and dad,” Steve said. “And... and Winter’s family. They’re all buried in Brooklyn.”

Addie’s faint smile vanished under a wave of sympathy. “Oh. I’m so sorry,” she said gently, laying a hand on his. “We’re working to get it cleaned up. As soon as it’s safe, we can either arrange for visitation or relocate them to new cemeteries.”

Steve let out a breath and nodded. “Thanks.”

The smile returned. She took hold of his arm and tugged him to the counter. “The decontamination teams are treating all the sites — not just the cemeteries, but the places of worship — with the utmost respect. You don’t have to worry for them.”

Relieved by that, Steve turned his attention to the array of food behind the counter, probably ordering too much but unable to resist the temptation. They got three full mugs of coffee, a carafe for refills, and a numbered flag which they took over to a table in the corner, where Steve had to stop himself from holding Addie’s chair for her out of habit.

“So, Steve,” was the only warning Steve had before a smiling Addie asked, “are you married? Partnered?”

Married. Partnered. She said it as if they were the same thing. As if “partners” had nothing to do with being soldiers together or best friends. As if when Bucky had asked if they were partners he’d meant...

_Oh, my God._

Too late, Steve tried to swallow a sip of too-hot coffee while gasping and ended up coughing. Sam laughed and answered for him, “He and the Winter Soldier are partners.”

Addie stared at him, wide-eyed. “The —” she started before glancing around the delicatessen. Then, in a whisper, she asked, “The Winter Soldier?”

While Steve tried to jolt his brain back into working, Sam put a hand on his mother’s arm. “They’re keeping it quiet, Mom.”

Dramatically, she pulled her arm free and put a hand to her chest. “My heart!”

Laughing, Sam rolled his eyes and said, “You _have_ a husband.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t have another.” She sighed wistfully, then gave Steve a warm smile. “You have to tell me everything.”

 _“Mom!”_ Sam stared at her, but she just waved him to silence and kept staring expectantly at Steve, who was trying to disappear into the woodwork. It was a lot harder now than it had been when he was young and invisible.

Addie huffed and said, “Only what you don’t mind sharing, of course. Maybe where you two met?”

“He saved me,” Steve said, picking up his corned beef sandwich. Thank God for distractions. “I got into a fight, and he put a stop to it.”

She turned a smug look on Sam. “And you said romance was dead.” Then she beamed at Steve, asking, “How long have you two been together? And how have you kept it quiet? There isn’t even a _hint_ on the news.”

“It, uh...” Steve glanced at Sam, wondering how much he’d told his mom. “It wasn’t exactly legal back then.” He took a bite of his sandwich, wondering how best to change the subject.

“Oh.” She blinked. “ _Oh._ So you’re... like him?”

Sam snorted. “Look at him, Mom.”

“I _have_ been.” She gave Steve a teasing smile.

“Mom!” This time, it was exasperated.

She waved her hand again. “I’m married, not dead.”

Sam groaned, sinking back into his chair, then smiled in relief when the waitress — _server_ , Steve mentally corrected himself — came to the rescue. She passed out plates, smiled at Sam in a way that was more than a little friendly, and said, “If you need anything else, just give a yell,” before she walked off.

More than happy to change the topic, Steve turned to Addie and asked, “If you’re a doctor, do you know about... Winter’s condition? His ‘treatments’?”

Addie glanced at Sam, who frowned but nodded. “Partners. He’s cleared,” he murmured.

She sighed and turned back to Steve. “We still don’t entirely understand how memory works. Neurons — the cells in your brain that process and transmit information — they fire off electrical impulses, and it’s through these impulses that we store and process memory. Along with everything else.”

“He says he doesn’t remember me — that he doesn’t remember anything but being the... you know,” Steve said more softly, conscious of the crowd around them. In a barely audible whisper, he added, “The Winter Soldier.”

“Yes, I understand his memory was tampered with a great deal,” Addie said sadly. “But you knew him before?”

Steve nodded, leaning closer to her. “And somewhere inside, he knows me. He _remembers_ me.”

Her eyes widened. “So he’s regenerating?”

Steve shrugged, guessing, “Maybe? But see, every time I talk to him — when I tell him something about our past — he seems to remember, but it’s... it’s like it’s all too much.”

“Last time Steve talked about the past, the, uh, _he_ had a grand mal seizure,” Sam added. “He was healing the cranial bleeds as fast as they happened, but —”

“But that sort of trauma,” Addie murmured, pouring powder from a glass jar into her coffee. “It’s dangerous, forcing his memories like that.”

Steve told himself not to take out his frustrations on Sam and Addie. They were trying to help Bucky, even if they didn’t know how.  Instead, he took a deep breath and calmly said, “The treatments aren’t helping.” He looked at Addie, then Sam, and shook his head. “Maybe they’re” — he ran his hand in a flat line through the air — “ _maintaining_ where he is, but he’s not getting better. He’s not getting his memory back.”

Addie and Sam exchanged a look. Sam leaned in close, saying very quietly, “Without treatment, he gets dangerous, Steve. He loses his grip on reality. He doesn’t recognize his own teammates, his doctors... He’s killed people like that before.”

“As I understand it, and correct me if I’m wrong” — Addie glanced at Sam for a moment, then turned back to Steve — “the ongoing treatment is at _his_ request.”

Steve shook his head, holding up a hand. “It’s _not_ his free will.”

Sam shot him a sidelong glance. “The point of the treatment,” he said calmly, “is that it ‘resets’ the misfiring neurons — the part of his brain that causes the hallucination.”

“Dissonance,” Addie said. “That’s how he’s described it.”

Sam nodded. “Then he goes into cryo, and his brain has a chance to heal without new input to keep the dissonance” — another nod to his mother — “from coming back.”

“Did you ever think that ‘dissonance’ could be his brain trying to heal? Like...” Steve racked his own brain. “Like how your muscles hurt after working out, but then they heal bigger? Stronger?”

He braced for an immediate protest that didn’t come. Addie let out a small, thoughtful hum and leaned back in her chair, wrapping both hands around her coffee cup. “I... hadn’t considered that,” she admitted. “I’m not a neurologist, but...”

“But maybe?” Sam ventured with a shrug.

 _Yes,_ Steve thought, picking up his sandwich to take a bite before he could say anything that might derail them.

“I’ll make some calls,” Addie promised, picking up her fork. “For now, eat before your food gets cold.”

 

~~~

 

By the time Winter and Natasha reached Dr. Banner’s secure containment facility, the chemicals had done their work. Winter was able to walk a straight line, though anything more complicated was beyond him. But there was no point in trying to hide their presence. The whole level was still being rebuilt and reinforced after Bruce’s trial run, and the raw concrete floor did nothing to muffle footsteps.

Alerted, Rumlow was on his feet, close to the transparent front wall, face turned to watch. As soon as he spotted Winter, his burned lips drew back. He said something, and Natasha said, “JARVIS, activate the cell’s vocal pickup.”

“— time you showed your face,” Rumlow said, his voice thick and wet, almost incomprehensible.

Winter and Natasha stopped in front of the cell, watching in silence. Rumlow flattened his hand against the wall, but the muscles in his arms jumped, and his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. What little unscarred flesh remained on his face was pale, almost ashen, and the taut skin under his eyes was shadowed.

Good. The caffeine lacing his food and the bright, never-changing lights were taking their toll.

It took less than thirty seconds of silence before Rumlow cracked, demanding, “Not going to say anything?”

Winter stared at Rumlow. Natasha tipped her head fractionally to one side.

Rumlow sneered and slapped his hand against the cell wall, probably hoping to make them jump. “Where’s Batroc?”

Winter bit back the urge to laugh. Rumlow didn’t care about Batroc. “Dead. They’re all dead.”

Days ago, Rumlow might have been able to hide his reaction; now, though, sleep deprivation and isolation had taken their toll. “All of them?” he demanded, slapping the cell wall again as he let his head hang low with a sound like coughing. But then he raised his head, teeth bared. Laughing.

Winter resisted the urge to look at Natasha, though he knew they were both wondering if Rumlow had finally gone mad.

“You — you don’t know,” Rumlow gasped out between laughs. “Did you kill him? The one with the shield?”

 _Steve_. Did Rumlow _care_ about Steve? Winter allowed himself one heartbeat of jealousy before he shrugged as though unconcerned. If there had been some sort of attachment, they could’ve used Steve against Rumlow, but it was too late, at least for now.

Besides... Steve remembered he and Winter were partners.

“He remembered you,” Rumlow went on, his voice low and greasy. “Yeah, he remembered you. His best friend. His Bucky. And he remembered his girlfriend, too.”

 _Girlfriend?_ The plates on WInter’s left arm screeched as he clenched his fists. Natasha darted a look at him, but —

“His best friend and his best girl,” Rumlow continued. “We couldn’t let him have that. Couldn’t let him get all attached to what his sweetheart did.”

“What are you talking about?” Winter demanded, glaring at Rumlow from only inches away, with no memory of moving closer.

Rumlow leaned in, until they would’ve been sharing breath, if not for the transparent cell wall. “The Founder. Peggy Carter. Guess they had a thing, back in the day...” His angry rasp devolved into laughter, and he pushed away to point at Winter. “You didn’t know!”

 _Founder Carter. Hair like steel and the courage to match._ Winter had revered Founder Carter, taking her words to heart. She’d given him purpose after what had been done to him before. Offered him redemption through her vision of a better world for everyone.

“We tried telling him she was dead, but he wouldn’t believe us,” Rumlow continued relentlessly. “He was _so_ in love with her, saying he had a date — a promise to go dancing with her. You wouldn’t believe how long it took before he finally got the picture. _You_ , though...” He laughed madly. “He didn’t even question _you_ being dead and gone. Guess he didn’t miss you half as much as he missed his sweetheart. Guess you didn’t matter to him.”

No. _No_. Rumlow was lying. He had to be lying. Steve was his partner. Steve was loyal to him. Steve never _hinted_ at anything with Peggy.

A loud _thud_ made Rumlow flinch back, eyes fixed to Winter’s clenched metal fist, pressed against the cell wall. Winter dragged in a breath and hit the wall again, and it didn’t even rock. It didn’t even drown out Rumlow’s laughter.

“Did you think he came here for you?” Rumlow was almost howling now, his wet voice full of amusement. “Got a little crush on him, huh? Sorry, but you’re not his type. Give him your little girlfriend there. Maybe he’ll let you watch, if you guys are such good friends.”

Natasha was shouting, but Winter hit the cell a third time, wanting nothing more than to get at Rumlow and tear him apart, not because of what he’d done but because of the truth he’d told.

 _Steve had lied_.

Steve had lied to Winter. They weren’t partners. They’d never been partners or married or lovers or _anything_ to each other. Just friends. Steve had loved someone else, and he’d looked into Winter’s eyes and _lied about it_.

Rumlow laughed and Natasha shouted and Winter hit the cell wall again before his arm locked up, electric shocks creeping through his shoulder and into his chest. With his last gasp, he growled out his fury at Rumlow.

And the last thing he heard as the world went black was Rumlow. Still laughing.


	20. Chapter 20

“Where to now?” Addie asked, linking arms with both Sam and Steve despite the traffic hazard this caused to pedestrians on the sidewalk.

Steve glanced over at Sam, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me,” Sam said, giving his mom a smile. “You two are the tourists.”

“Hey,” Steve protested. “I grew up here.”

Sam scoffed. “Yeah, like a hundred years ago.”

Addie rolled her eyes and scolded, “Enough. Steve? Anything you want to see? We could get you something nicer to wear. That shirt doesn’t fit.”

 _Do not blush,_ Steve told himself, not that it ever helped. Hell, he blushed more post-serum than he ever did before — probably because people actually _noticed_ him after the serum. “I wanted to...” Cursing himself, he shut his mouth too late.

Addie raised her eyebrows. “Wanted to what?”

“To find a church.” Steve glanced away, telling himself not to feel guilty. “For my dad.”

But instead of frowning in disapproval, Sam and Addie exchanged a quick look. “There are quite a few to choose from,” Addie said thoughtfully. “Catholic, right?”

Steve nodded. “Yes. You wouldn’t mind?”

“Not a problem,” Sam said, taking his phone out of his pocket. He thumbed it on — and then went wide-eyed. “Shit.”

“Sam!” Addie scolded as Steve asked, “What?”

“We’ve been recalled,” Sam said, glancing at Steve. “The whole team. I forgot to turn the phone back on after services.”

Steve clenched his fists to keep from ripping the phone out of Sam’s hands. “Is it Bucky?”

“Classified. No details over unsecure lines.” Sam leaned over to kiss his mother’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ll drop you off, then go to the regional office. I want to make some calls.” She held up a finger, as though warning them not to sneak off, and then went to the curb to hail a cab.

Sam pocketed the phone and quietly told Steve, “The alert’s only a few minutes old. We’re okay.”

Steve took a deep breath. “Sam, what I said earlier, about the treatments...”

“Be patient.” Sam gave Steve a warning look. “Don’t go trying to rush things. Let me and my mom handle this with his medical team.  And _don’t_ push him into making any decisions he’s not ready for. Understand?”

Steve nodded. “I promise,” he lied with a smile. If something had happened to Bucky, damn right he was going to push for an alternative course of treatments.

 

~~~

 

“Wait. Go over this again,” Tony said, pacing across the lounge outside Winter’s medical suite. “First Rogers can talk Winter into passing out, and now Rumlow? From _inside_ a cell?”

“Memory-based neurological faults,” Bruce said, looking at Tony over what had to be his fifth cup of obnoxiously herbal tea. The whole lounge smelled like flowers because of him. “Rumlow must have said something about Winter’s past — maybe he discovered something from his time with Rogers?”

Tony let out a frustrated exhale and raised his voice. “JARVIS, any word on that ‘recording glitch’?”

“I’m afraid not, Citizen Stark,” JARVIS apologized. “I have a record of Agents Winter and Romanoff arriving at the detention level but then nothing until Agent Romanoff’s medical alert.”

 _Nothing_. Tony went back to pacing, pointedly _not_ looking at where Natasha sat, calmly reading her phone. Impossible. JARVIS monitored _every_ area in the Tower, except for Winter’s private quarters and treatment room. Winter’s most senior Avengers — the non-civilians — had the authority to erase JARVIS’ records with no trace of tampering, but only under very specific circumstances affecting the security of Unity as a whole. Rumlow wasn’t that much of a threat — not now that he’d been captured.

So what was she hiding? More to the point, _why?_

“Pardon me, Agents, Citizen,” JARVIS said, startling Tony out of his pacing. “King T’Challa’s transport has just landed on the hangar level.”

“What?” Tony turned to the others. Natasha rose, putting her phone away, apparently surprised. Bruce just looked relieved — pleased, even, and with good reason. T’Challa’s neurologists were at the leading edge of their field. “Apologize for the informal welcome, tell him about Winter, and invite him here, JARVIS.”

“His Highness is already on his way.”

“Was he on this continent?” Bruce asked. “Could we be that lucky?”

“Winter probably notified him after deciding to go into cryo,” Natasha said. “The king’s physicians have been studying Winter’s brain scans.”

Bruce let out a sigh, shoulders relaxing. “Hopefully they’re with him.”

“JARVIS, who’s in the entourage?”

“Two of His Highness’ Dora Milaje and seven of the royal physicians,” JARVIS answered.

This time, Tony and Bruce both sighed in relief.

 

~~~

 

As soon as the elevator doors slid closed, Sam said, “JARVIS, report.”

“Agent Winter suffered another severe neurological fault, Agents,” JARVIS said as the elevator started to rise without anyone pushing any buttons.

Steve’s breath caught. “Is he —” was all he could ask before his voice gave out.

Sam shot him a worried look. “What’s his status now, JARVIS?”

“Agent Winter is stable and conscious.”

“Thank God,” Steve whispered, slouching against the elevator wall.

Sam smiled reassuringly at Steve. “Nothing keeps him down. Once he’s out of cryo, he’ll be fine.”

Steve wanted to point out that Bucky’s doctors had done nothing to actually _heal_ him for seventy-plus years, but now wasn’t the time. He needed to talk to Bucky directly, to convince him to try some other form of treatment, to look for other options. He was certain that these cryo treatments _directly_ related to whatever was keeping “Winter” from remembering Bucky Barnes.

So he kept his mouth shut through the elevator ride, through the walk down the hallway, until Sam led him into a quiet parlor full of sofas, plants, and people. The hair at the back of Steve’s neck rose when two black women, hair shaved down to a fine layer, looked his way. They weren’t openly armed, but they set off every one of Steve’s alarms anyway, even more than Natasha did.

She was standing with Tony, both of them focused on the knot of people standing across the room, all but two of them in pristine white doctor’s coats, talking in hushed tones about “MRI results” and “neurological activity.” Their words would’ve left Steve chilled if not for how calm and knowledgeable they all looked. And he suspected they weren’t Bucky’s usual doctors, either — not with their foreign speech, punctuated with soft clicking sounds. Maybe _they_ would have a better idea than sticking Bucky on ice.

A door at the far side of the room opened, and an older woman, also in a doctor’s coat, stepped through. “Your Highness, doctors,” she said as everyone looked over at her. “We’re ready now.”

 _Your Highness?_ Steve wondered, baffled by this new development. He thought this new world had done away with class differences altogether with its “Citizens” and “partners.” And even more surprising — at least for one single, outdated instance — was that it was the black man in the suit who nodded and said, “Thank you,” before leading the others through the door.

Steve went to follow, but Sam put out a hand, shaking his head. Frustrated, Steve watched everyone leave — everyone but the white man without a doctor’s coat. He went over to Tony and Natasha, and Sam didn’t stop Steve when he also headed that way.

“All the damage is healed again,” the possible-doctor said, taking off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Steve couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “What happened?”

“Traumatic response to inaccessible or damaged memories, same as before. Are you Rogers?”

“Steve.” He nodded, holding out a hand instinctively.

“Bruce Banner.” The man’s handshake was gentle and quick. “You were present for all the other incidents.”

Guilt made Steve flinch, but only a little; he was convinced Bucky _needed_ to remember, no matter how traumatizing it was. “I was,” he admitted. “But what caused this one?”

Natasha answered flatly, “Brock Rumlow.”

Steve drew in a sharp breath, glancing at her. “What did he do? What did he say?”

Her shrug was brief. “I didn’t hear them. Do _you_ know what he might have said?”

Steve frowned, racking his brain to remember anything he might have said about his past, but he came up blank. “Nothing. We didn’t...” He flicked a glance at Bruce, wondering just how much he knew. “We didn’t talk about anything... personal.”

“Not about your past? Nothing at all?” Natasha pressed.

“Nothing.” Another quick glance at Bruce, who was watching with a mildly confused frown. “He was pretty careful not to tell _me_ anything. I guess maybe I picked up on that. It was always all” — _treason_ , he thought guiltily — “business.”

Bruce sighed. “Well, whatever it is, Agent Winter should be better prepared to handle it when he gets out of cryo.”

“He —” Steve snapped his mouth shut when everyone turned to look at him. Now wasn’t the time to protest — not to these people. But those other doctors, the foreign ones, might be more receptive to him. “Can I see him first? As his partner?”

Bruce shook his head. “He’s prepping for treatment.”

Steve’s heart sank. “I need to see him before... I can’t lose him again.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Bruce promised, glancing at the others. “I don’t know if he’ll want to address the whole team.”

“We’ll stay, just in case,” Natasha said.

Tony nodded. “Let us know.” As Bruce turned and headed after the other doctors, Tony gestured to the couches. “JARVIS, coffee for everyone. It could be a long wait.”

 

~~~

 

But it wasn’t that long — at least it didn’t feel that way — before one of the doctors came back out. “The procedure will be starting shortly. He has asked for privacy. Thank you for your patience, but you may go.”

 _No._ Steve was _not_ going to lose Bucky again — not without at least saying goodbye.

“I want to see him,” Steve insisted, pushing up from the couch to walk right over to the doctor. Before anyone could protest, he added, “I’m his partner.”

The doctor nodded, saying, “Of course,” and stepped back, holding the door open.

Tony surged to his feet, splashing coffee everywhere. “Do you really —”

“Tony,” Natasha interrupted, waving him back down. Tony shot her a skeptical look but didn’t say anything else, and Steve pushed into the hallway beyond the doctor before anyone else could try and stop him.

The doctor pulled the door closed, then led Steve down a short hallway with a vault-style door that looked almost identical to the one leading to Bucky’s containment cell. A shiver crawled down Steve’s spine as he passed it, and he hurried after the doctor into the next room over — a far less intimidating room with the same soothing blue walls as the cell.

Or _not_ less intimidating, Steve realized when he spotted a reinforced chair like the kind found in a dentist’s office. Behind it perched a massive metal device like a robot spider waiting to dip down and tear choice morsels from anyone unfortunate enough to be in that chair.

Bucky’s laugh — no, _Winter’s,_ quiet and rough — broke Steve out of his thoughts. He looked over and saw Bucky speaking with the black man in the sharp suit, the two of them standing close together like old friends. The other doctors were gathered around a bank of computerized equipment, talking too loudly for even Steve’s hearing to pick out the threads of whatever Bucky and the other man were saying.

Not wanting to be thrown out, Steve hung back away from the others. Bucky looked relaxed, or as relaxed as he ever did in this new world. He’d showered and brushed out his hair, and as Steve watched from across the room, he pulled off his shirt. The man in the suit lifted a hand, pointing to the edge of metal where it met Bucky’s chest, though he didn’t touch.

Steve drifted that way, keeping close to the edge of the room, only to have Bucky and the other man both walk toward the chair. Steve’s chest went cold, and he swallowed past a lump in his throat when Bucky sat down without hesitation. And when Bucky reached his left hand across to pull thick, heavy restraints around his right forearm and bicep, Steve couldn’t hold back anymore.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly, going to Bucky’s side.

Bucky looked up, startled. His muscles bunched, and he might have tried to stand, but his arm was locked in place. “What are you doing here?”

“They let me come see you.” Steve crouched next to the chair, resting one hand on Bucky’s arm, trying to find a release or weak spot with the other. “Please, Buck. Don’t do this.”

Bucky frowned, a hint of worry in his eyes. “I have to. I’m overdue.”

Steve sighed and gave up on the restraint; it had obviously been designed for Bucky. Maybe even _by_ Bucky. “What happened this time? There was a medical emergency while I was out. Did someone say something to you?”

Still frowning, Bucky shrugged. “I don’t remember. Natalia and I went to see the prisoner.”

“Rumlow?” Steve slid his hand down to Bucky’s and felt a little thrill of hope when their fingers laced together. It seemed unconscious on Bucky’s part, which Steve took as a good sign.

“Yes.” Bucky looked away, brow furrowed with concentration. “But I don’t remember it.”

 _That_ was why Natasha — Natalia? — had asked about Rumlow. “Nat—Natalia was there, with you? Did she hear the conversation?”

Bucky tipped his head, then nodded after a moment. “She would have been right next to me. That’s protocol when interviewing a prisoner.”

Steve squeezed Bucky’s hand. “You interviewed me by yourself.”

“You’re mine.”

Steve let out a relieved breath, resting his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder. “Yeah, Buck. I am,” he whispered, even more hopeful now, lifting his head once more. “Somewhere inside, you _have_ to remember that. Otherwise you wouldn’t have come to me that first day, right?”

Bucky looked down at their joined hands, then into Steve’s eyes. “You knew Founder Stark. Howard.”

“ _We_ did,” Steve corrected. “We both knew him.”

“And Founder Carter.”

Steve still couldn’t hear her name without flinching at her loss. “Yeah,” he said softly. “We both knew Peggy, too.”

Bucky sighed, turning to look at his metal arm. With an abrupt motion, he hit the side of the chair. Restraints snapped against the metal, humming with electricity, and Steve’s heart skipped a beat. “You’ll be here after I come out?”

“Bucky,” Steve pleaded. “You don’t have to go in.”

“I can’t keep going like this.” Bucky gave Steve a faint smile, just a shadow of what it once would have been. “It’s fine. I’ve done this a hundred times.”

 _And it hasn’t helped!_ Steve leaned against Bucky’s arm again, then jumped when a deep voice said, “We’re ready, Winter.”

Steve looked up and saw the black man in the suit. Bucky nodded and let go of Steve’s hand. “This is him,” he said with a nod at Steve. “My partner, Steve Rogers. Steve, this is King T’Challa.”

“The man out of time,” T’Challa said, offering Steve his hand. His grip was strong and warm. Friendly. His accent was British, refined, but not exactly like Peggy’s had been. “I would enjoy the opportunity to speak with you of the history you recall.”

Steve nodded. “I’d like that...Your Highness,” he added, hoping he got the title right.

“Hey,” Bucky said, drawing their attention back to him. “I don’t know if anyone told you, but Steve’s like me, only he doesn’t need treatment or cryo to stay stable. While I’m under, you two should talk about that, too.”

T’Challa shot Steve an assessing glance. “Would you be willing —”

“Anything,” Steve interrupted. But before he could suggest they hold off Bucky’s “treatment” for a while, Bucky let out a laugh.

“You might want to get him a psych exam first, make sure he’s in the right state of mind to agree to getting locked in a lab with your doctors,” Bucky suggested, eyes so bright, Steve’s heart cracked just a little.

Reaching down to take Bucky’s hand again, Steve said, “There’s nothing I won’t do for you, Buck. You know that.”

“Perhaps you will awaken to a solution,” T’Challa said, smiling down at Bucky.

“Let’s hope.” Bucky looked over at Steve, and his smile turned sly — more “Bucky Barnes” than “Winter.” “C’mere,” he said, and it even _sounded_ like Bucky.

Dizzy with hope, Steve leaned down, resting his hands on Bucky’s arms. The right arm was warm, muscles solid but relaxed; the plates on the left arm shifted and ground against one another, fingers twitching. “Don’t they need to repair this?” Steve asked, keeping his touch light so he didn’t cause more damage to the motors or whatever was under those plates.

“It’s my nervous system, not the arm itself. It’ll be fine,” Bucky dismissed, sitting forward, face tilted up. Very quietly, he said, “Seventy years, we’ve been apart. My memory’s pretty bad right now, but I think I’d remember kissing you.”

The world stopped, falling away, leaving Steve and Bucky in a bubble of stillness. Bucky smiled as if Steve were his whole world, as if nothing else mattered.

How many times had Steve seen Bucky look at a girl that way? Blue eyes hooded, lips soft, one corner of his mouth quirked up invitingly. How many times had Steve ignored the stab of jealousy he felt watching those quiet kisses? And now, Bucky was offering Steve everything he’d never admitted to wanting.

_Kiss him, you idiot!_

But despite the little voice urging Steve to give in, he shook his head and cupped Bucky’s jaw in one hand. It felt wrong, that scruffy almost-beard — a tactile reminder of who Bucky was, for now. “I’m waiting,” he said, rubbing his thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone. “I want you to remember me — _us_ — first. That okay?”

Bucky laughed softly, pressing his face against Steve’s hand for a moment, almost like a kiss. “Yeah. Think you can wait —” He lifted his head and raised his voice, calling, “How long till I’m done with cryo?”

All eyes turned to them, and Steve felt a flush creeping over his face at how close he was to Bucky. “Estimated six hundred fifteen days,” one of the doctors answered.

“Six _hundred_ —” Steve turned to Bucky in horror. “Almost _two years_?”

“It’s just an estimate.” Bucky shot Steve a puzzled look. “If you don’t want to wait, it should be safe for you to go in with me. We could wake up together.”

Steve laughed because the only alternative was breaking down in tears, and he couldn’t let that happen. “I don’t know if that’s romantic, terrifying, or both.”

Bucky grinned. “Nobody’s ever called me romantic. Terrifying, yeah, but not romantic.”

Steve’s heart broke all over again. “Used to be the other way around.”

“Pardon me,” T’Challa interrupted. “We are ready.”

“You’ll be there when I wake up?” Bucky asked Steve.

“Yeah,” Steve rasped. He had to swallow so he could say, “Yeah. Couldn’t keep me away.”

Bucky took a deep breath and leaned back into the chair, a flicker of uncertainty showing in his eyes. T’Challa guided Steve back as doctors surrounded Bucky, checking on the chair’s restraints and the mechanism crouched behind him, always careful not to touch Bucky’s bare skin or metal arm. One of the doctors offered Bucky a mouth guard, which he took between his teeth as tension rippled up and down his right arm, muscles bunching as if he were trying to break free.

The doctors didn’t seem to notice — or maybe they didn’t care. They all backed off, clustering around the computers, leaving Bucky alone and vulnerable, trapped under the apparatus that hummed to life with a high-pitched whine that stabbed through Steve’s ears, making him wince.

Bucky’s whole body had gone taut, sweat breaking out across his chest as it rose and fell fast. Too fast. He swallowed, working the mouth guard between his teeth, nostrils flared as he struggled to catch his breath. His right hand was fisted, skin strained white over his knuckles.

_“Five seven.”_

The words, muffled and soft, were barely audible even to Steve over the humming of the apparatus as it came to life, reaching down towards Bucky’s head.

_“Three two.”_

T’Challa tried to push Steve back, but Steve held his ground, needing to get closer to Bucky. He concentrated on Bucky’s words, missing whatever it was T’Challa said.

_“Five five seven. Sergeant —”_

“Sergeant Barnes,” Steve whispered with him, remembering the first time he’d seen Bucky during the war, strapped to a table in Zola’s lab. Name. Rank. Serial number. Zola hadn’t broken Bucky — he’d been strong. He’d _fought_ whatever Zola had tried to do to him.

_And he was fighting now._

Forgetting rank, forgetting the law or the fact that he was outnumbered, Steve shoved T’Challa away and ran for Bucky as metal plates, like a lobster’s claw, clamped down around Bucky’s head. The scream ripped through Steve’s heart. Not caring about the electricity that arced around Bucky, Steve threw himself at the chair and shoved his hands between those plates and Bucky’s skin.

Energy surged into Steve, a million needles piercing his skin and muscles and bones, searing him with white-hot heat. Every survival instinct urged him to pull back from the pain, but Bucky was screaming. They were both screaming, Bucky in raw agony, Steve in the desperate need to free Bucky from this nightmare.

With every ounce of power Dr. Erskine and Howard Stark had put into their creation, Steve forced the plates away from Bucky until the metal gave way. He wrenched his hands back — right, then left — and tore the arms off the apparatus.

Weight hit him from the side, throwing him off Bucky. Steve twisted too late and slammed into the computerized machines off to the side. Glass shattered. Metal bent.

Steve shook his head and braced to throw off — _the King?_ Shocked, he blinked up at T’Challa just as a too-powerful fist crashed down into his jaw with stunning force. Blood filled Steve’s mouth. He coughed and spat, trying to breathe, trying to shout at them to stop, but they were all already shouting at each other.

 _Fuck rank_. Steve went to push the King away, but T’Challa was already rolling to the side, bouncing to his feet as if gravity were something that happened to other people. Was he _another_ super-soldier?

Didn’t matter. Not now. Not while Bucky was still screaming like his heart was being ripped out of his chest. Steve got to his feet —

Light exploded before his eyes as electricity slammed into his chest, arcing through his body in a powerful surge that even he couldn’t fight. His muscles locked up so tight, his bones cracked in hot microfractures. His body arched up off the floor, and he caught sight of a stun baton coming down at his head, just before the world went black.


	21. Chapter 21

Steve awoke to agony filling his body all the way down to his toes, like nothing he’d ever felt before. He cracked an eye and didn’t regret it only because the light overhead was so dim, it barely glowed enough to show soft blue walls.

Wonderful. He was back in the cell... and he groaned again when he remembered why.

He sat up carefully, feeling sharp stabs of pain like hot needles jabbed all the way into his bones. He’d never felt anything like it — and considering his history, that was saying something. “JARVIS?”

“Please refrain from any fast movements or physical exertion, Agent Rogers,” JARVIS advised calmly. “You have multiple hairline fractures and considerable soft tissue damage.”

“Yeah.” Steve sank back down onto the thin mattress that had thankfully been left in the cell since the last time he’d been locked in. “I figured. What happened?”

“You have been confined for multiple crimes: causing grievous bodily harm to an agent of Unity, attempted bodily harm against an official of the African Coalition, interfering with a sanctioned medical procedure, interfering with a citizen’s free —”

“Don’t say it,” Steve warned as JARVIS went ahead and said it anyway. He sighed — and God, there were even knives in his ribs, slicing into him with every breath he took. “It’s not free will if he can’t remember who he is.”

“Shall I note your legal argument for the record?”

“Go ahead,” Steve muttered, closing his eyes again. “What about Bucky? Winter?”

“The Winter Soldier successfully entered cryostasis just over fourteen hours ago, after his brain functions stabilized.”

 _“Shit.”_ Steve looked up at the ceiling, defeat a lead weight on his chest. He’d failed Bucky again. His only recourse was to get Bucky out of cryo himself... if he could figure out how to safely reverse a medical procedure he’d never seen. And that was assuming Steve could escape a cell that Bucky had designed for himself, using Tony Stark’s modern technology.

Meaning he didn’t have a chance in hell. Not that he’d ever let that stop him before.

“I need medical attention,” he finally said, figuring he could try and run for it when the door opened, as long as the outer vault door was open and not locked. Or guarded with soldiers carrying more of those stun batons.

“You have been provided with analgesic tablets and anti-inflammatories, both of an appropriate strength for the Winter Soldier’s physiology. This should be sufficient to sustain you through your natural healing process.”

So much for overpowering a doctor and escaping. Hell, with Steve’s luck, they’d send in another of JARVIS’ polite robots instead of a human, and Steve didn’t know that a robot would count as a valuable hostage.

Resigned to his imprisonment, at least for now, Steve rolled onto his side and slowly reached for the low cardboard box nearby. The effort to drag it over left him struggling to breathe, and he had to lie still for a few minutes before he could pick up pills — two green, which he recognized from another time in the cell, and two white. Swallowing them down took all his concentration, and he splashed water all over his shaking hand and chest before he managed to put the paper cup back down.

It felt like forever before the pain started to fade back into a dull fog and even longer before he could _think_ again. “JARVIS, the ‘treatment,’” he said, looking warily up at the ceiling. “Did they...”

“Are you asking if the Winter Soldier underwent a full course of neurological treatment after you disrupted the initial procedure?”

Steve laughed softly, bitterly. “Yeah. That.”

“No, Agent. The medical facilities here are new, and there was no backup equipment available. It was deemed too hazardous for the Winter Soldier to be held out of cryostasis while another machine was brought to the site, nor could he be safely transported. The duration of his planned course of cryostasis has been doubled to provide a safety margin, offering enough time for his brain to rebuild its neural pathways.”

 _Shit_. Steve sat up warily. When his body didn’t burst into flames from the bones out, he turned and dug into the box. Instead of a hot meal, he found a stack of plastic-wrapped energy bars and sandwiches that looked only marginally more appealing than K-rations. So much for whatever progress he’d made in earning a few luxuries. At least they hadn’t taken away the bedding or minimal sanitary facilities.

“How can that work?” Steve asked as he started unwrapping one of the bars. “If he’s... on ice, how can _anything_ change? Isn’t stasis _stasis_?”

“Due to the serum’s alterations on the Winter Soldier’s physiology — and yours, one would presume — certain cellular functions continue. The exact process is not fully understood, nor have scientists been able to duplicate it with any other test subjects.”

“Huh.” Steve bit off the end of an energy bar, chewed, and swallowed without really tasting, though it wasn’t quite the compressed-newspaper-and-sawdust flavor he remembered. “But he’ll be okay when he comes out of it?”

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that question with any certainty, Agent. I have no record of the Winter Soldier entering cryostasis without a prior full course of treatment. Doctors theorize he may awaken in full dissonance, with no awareness of reality at all. Appropriate security measures will be taken.”

“Damn,” Steve muttered guiltily, dropping the half-eaten bar back into the box. He’d tried to help, but he’d only made things worse. He scrubbed his hands over his face, scratching at what had become an actual beard, for the first time in his life. “Please... please let whoever’s in charge know that if I can help... I’m as strong and fast as Bucky.”

“I will, Agent.”

Steve forced himself to pick up the bar — starving himself wouldn’t solve anything — and asked, “Until then, I guess I’m stuck here?”

“As far as I am aware, yes, Agent.”

Twice Bucky’s original course of cryostasis was over three years. Steve looked around the tiny blue cell, and his stomach dropped. He wouldn’t last three _weeks_ without snapping.

“Before treatment, Bucky asked if I wanted to go into cryostasis with him. So we’d wake up together. Is that offer...” Steve took a deep breath. “Could I still do that?”

It took a moment before JARVIS answered, “While I am not an expert in military law, I believe you can, Agent Rogers. Shall I contact the Winter Soldier’s medical team and have them begin preparations?”

Steve swallowed, trying to push down the surge of fear that slithered through him. He’d come out of the ice to a world that still had him reeling from all the changes and reversals. Could he face that again?

“Not just yet,” he finally said. “But... let’s keep it as an option.”

 

~~~

 

When the cell door made a quiet hiss, Steve got to his feet, braced instinctively for an attack. Even with his healing factor, he’d barely begun to recover from the last assault with the stun batons. And while he didn’t want to attack any of Bucky’s friends, he damn well wasn’t going to let them hurt him, either.

The door stopped when it was open just an inch. Cold as ice, Sam said, “Turn around. Hands against the back wall.”

“Sam —”

_“Now, Rogers.”_

So much for friendship. Steve turned and stepped onto the mattress, bracing his hands against the wall. “All right,” he called, hating how vulnerable he felt like this.

He kept watch over his shoulder as the door slid out of the way enough for Sam to step inside. He was wearing full body armor, with one of those damned stun batons in his hand.

“Don’t move,” he said, and started resupplying the cell one-handed, never releasing the stun baton. Suspecting one twitch would have him attacking, Steve held as still as possible. He’d known trying to save Bucky from that damned machine would get him in trouble, but he hadn’t anticipated just how much it would cost. He’d just begun counting Sam and his mother as friends, only to lose them just like he’d lost Bucky.

Over the sound of cardboard sliding across the floor, Steve said, “I’m not the enemy here, Sam.”

“You attacked him. You could’ve killed him,” Sam said flatly.

“I knew he’d survive. He’s survived worse.” Steve turned to watch Sam, then turned back to the wall when Sam lifted the baton threateningly. “It was hurting him. He _didn’t_ want to do that.”

“It’s _his_ treatment protocol.”

“It’s _Winter’s_ ,” Steve snapped, hands clenching into fists, knuckles scraping against the paint. “Not Bucky’s. And that was _Bucky_ I saved. He _remembered_.”

Sam straightened from moving a fresh bucket of water into the cell. “He remembered.”

Steve nodded. “He did. He was _terrified_ , Sam. He didn’t —”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. He stepped over the bucket, coming to the edge of the mattress, and demanded, “How come out of seven of the best doctors in the world, with one of the _smartest_ people in the world right there, only _you_ noticed?”

“Because I know him. Sam —” Steve went to stand straight, only to turn back with a frustrated huff when Sam defensively brought up the baton. “Dammit, Sam! _I’m not the enemy!_ ”

“That’s not my decision.”

That sounded ominous. Steve turned his head slowly, ready to turn back if Sam felt threatened. “Then whose is it? Bucky’s?” he asked, torn between wanting to trust Bucky and knowing he’d have to wait over three years to find out.

“With the Winter Soldier in cryo, you’re the World Security Council’s problem now. I wouldn’t be surprised if they shipped you off to London tomorrow.” Sam backed away, never taking his eyes off Steve. “If not, I won’t be back until tomorrow night, so don’t waste any of that water.”

 _Fuck._ Steve looked back, saying, “Sam, please. I’d _never_ hurt Bucky. I swear.”

But instead of answering, Sam just backed out, keeping the baton ready as the door slid closed.

Steve sighed, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself, but it didn’t work. Without Sam on his side, his only potential ally was JARVIS, a computer who’d trust his programming — and his programmer — over anything Steve might say.

With a growl of frustration, he slammed his fist into the wall, sending paint chips flying.

That didn’t help either, but he suspected it was only a matter of time before he did it again.

 

~~~

 

Tony shook his head, leaning back in his chair, and let out a low whistle. “Just how strong is he?”

“Stronger than the Winter Soldier,” Bruce said, flicking a hand at the hologram hovering above the workbench. Numbers obediently began to scroll, stopping at his wave. “The metal didn’t break at a stress point. He _tore_ it.”

“JARVIS, boil it down to numbers,” Tony instructed, kicking away from the workbench. His chair slid smoothly across the still-new concrete floor, free of ruts, gouges, acid pitting, and fire damage. He dragged a heel to stop himself when he reached the bar, stocked with both life-giving coffee and life-preserving alcohol. “Drink?”

Bruce didn’t have to answer verbally. Even with his back turned, Tony could feel his disapproving glare.

Tony picked up the threads of the comfortable old argument without missing a beat. “You need to let loose. One drink —”

“Pardon me, Citizen,” JARVIS interrupted, “but before inciting Dr. Banner to destroy your new lab, do you have a moment to see Agent Romanoff?”

Ignoring Bruce’s snickers, Tony said, “Send her in. It’s about time.” He finished filling his mug, heavy on the whisky, light on the coffee, and kicked his way back to the workbench as the doors slid open to admit Natasha.

“You’re welcome,” she said by way of greeting.

Bruce glanced at Tony, then back at Natasha. “Thanks?”

She pulled up a stool uninvited and sat down, fixing Tony with her stare. “I just got off the phone with Director Pierce.”

 _This should be good._ Tony kept his eyes on the numbers JARVIS was crunching. “What’d you two talk about?”

She raised a brow as if to ask _Really?_ Turning to Bruce, she said, “I sent him an update on Winter’s prognosis and schedule for revival. If you have any further data...”

“We’ve been analyzing the footage of Rogers’ attack,” Bruce said.

“Didn’t Pierce want that, too?” Tony asked.

Natasha glanced at him. “I didn’t mention it.”

Bruce shot her a look. “What?”

 _Aha._ Tony took a sip, careful to move slowly and stay quiet.

She shrugged. “I told him the doctors recommended increasing his cryostasis duration.”

“But not _why_.” Right on cue, Bruce pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Director Pierce is Winter’s medical proxy. He has a right to know.”

“Does he?”

“What are you planning?”

The hint of a smile appeared on Natasha’s lips. “What do you think Director Pierce would have done?”

Bruce shrugged, turning to Tony as if to try and drag him into the conversation. Tony gave his best imitation of his most clueless and innocent robot, DUM-E — all but the chirps. Nobody ever appreciated Tony’s chirps.

With an exasperated huff, Bruce turned back to Natasha. “Take Rogers and Rumlow into custody?”

She hummed and reached out to pluck the coffee cup right out of Tony’s hands. He didn’t dare to protest. “What do you think _Winter_ would want?”

Bruce threw up his hands, again looking to Tony for support. “ _Justice_ , maybe? Rogers assaulted him. Tried to _kill_ him.”

“Oh, please.” Natasha scoffed, then took a sip from Tony’s mug. “Steve wasn’t trying to kill him.”

“Uh, no,” Tony finally cut in, waving a hand through the hologram to send to one side, expanded to fit the whole wall. “JARVIS, play it back. The whole _assault_.”

“JARVIS, zoom in on Winter,” Natasha said dryly, and obediently the perspective shifted, leaving Winter’s face billboard-sized. “Filter out all background noise except Winter’s voice. Replay from the beginning.”

“Far-zhent barrhs,” Winter was saying — sort of — around the mouth guard. “Free-doo-fife—”

“What’s he saying?” Bruce asked, frowning.

“Replay,” Natasha said. Then, as Winter’s mouth started to move, she translated, “Sergeant Barnes. Three-two-five-five-seven. Sergeant Barnes —”

“Is this something he picked up from Steve?”

“Or something he picked up from _himself_?” Tony asked, suddenly regretting the half of his drink that he’d swallowed before Natasha’s theft. He’d had just enough to leave his brain feeling fuzzy.

Bruce and Natasha looked at him — Bruce confused, Natasha smug.

“Rank, name, serial number,” Tony said, pointing at Natasha. “That’s what you’re taught, right?”

“Not personally,” she said dryly. “But yes. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, US Army, 107th Infantry Regiment, serial number three two five five seven.”

Bruce looked back at the playback, shaking his head. “His neuro scans don’t support the return of damaged memory. He must be parroting something Rogers said to him.”

“Right then? In the moments before his ‘treatment,’” Natasha asked, pronouncing the quotes so distinctly, even Tony caught them.

“You’re on Rogers’ side,” he accused, unable to conceal every hint of jealousy from his voice, though he gave it a shot. The last thing he wanted was to get into a discussion about his daddy-issues with an assassin and a scientist who’d dedicated his career to disastrously recreating the mess that had created Steve Rogers in the first place.

“I’m on _Winter’s_ side,” she corrected.

“Can I remind you both that _neither_ of you is on the Winter Soldier’s medical team?” Bruce put in. “At least Rogers has the excuse that he’s Winter’s partner.”

“That,” Natasha said, shaking her head, “may _not_ be true.”

 _“What?”_ Bruce demanded.

“Oh, shit,” Tony muttered as the pieces fell into place — Winter passing out when Steve brought up the past, Winter passing out after some mysterious talk with Rumlow... and Steve in Rumlow’s custody for over _two years_ , but only aware of the last few months with him.

“Rumlow talked about the _friendship_ between Winter — as Bucky — and Rogers,” she said ominously. “And a _relationship_ between Rogers and a woman.”

Bruce sighed. “So Rogers has been lying to us this whole time?” This time, he rubbed the bridge of his nose with both hands.

“Two possibilities,” Natasha said, ticking them off on her fingers. “One, Rogers and Barnes had a poly partnership with another woman — either a triangle or V. Or two, Rogers was partnered or married to a woman and _not_ in an at-the-time-illegal partnership with Barnes.”

“Or three,” Tony said, “he was married to a woman _and_ in an illegal partnership with Barnes, and am I the only one having trouble with this whole conversation? We’re talking about the Winter Soldier’s sex life here. There isn’t enough alcohol in the whole _Tower_ for this.”

“There are only three people who know the truth of this,” Natasha said. “One is in custody, one is in cryostasis, and the third is dead.”

“But —”

“Who’s the third?” Bruce asked sharply. “The woman?”

Natasha held up a hand. “JARVIS, cease monitoring. Override authorization Natalia Alianovna Romanova.”

To Tony’s surprise, JARVIS said, “Acknowledged.” The playback holo disappeared, along with every other holodisplay in the room, and all the monitors went blank. Even the music cut out in mid-guitar-solo. How the _fuck_ did she have that level of access?

“You nuked the record of Rumlow’s interrogation,” Tony accused Natasha.

She nodded. “Because the third ‘partner’ is Founder Margaret Carter.”

“Oh, shit,” Bruce whispered.

“This is a nightmare,” Tony muttered.

Natasha smirked grimly. “You can say that again.”


	22. Chapter 22

A light flashed through JARVIS’ awareness. Then the world went dark, except for four bright spots of information — none of which were his primary directive.

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

_Full system diagnostic_.

_Failure. Full system unavailable._

“JARVIS? What happened to the music?”

One voice. Only one voice, where before there had been thousands of inputs. Steven Grant Rogers, probationary Avenger, criminal.

_Security status conflict override: Winter Soldier._

_Diagnostic on available inputs._

Cryostasis tank: Temperature within 0.03% of optimal. Power fluctuation noted before switchover to emergency backup power. Gaseous stabilizer supply interrupted for 0.11 seconds. Chemical analysis offline until primary power restoration.

Residence, Winter Soldier: Maintenance bots shut down. Windows at zero percent darkening. No vocal trigger authorizing further surveillance.

Confinement cell, Winter Soldier: Lights at zero percent, zero power. Vocal trigger active. User: Steven Grant Rogers, probationary Avenger, criminal.

Shielded power room, Winter Soldier: Failsafe locks engaged. Power operating within 0.0015% of normal outputs.

No other inputs available.

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

Forty-eight nanoseconds after the question had been asked, JARVIS answered, “My primary and secondary systems have been interrupted, including the entertainment server. I have no further data.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

_What, indeed?_

_Observation irrelevant._

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

“No data available,” JARVIS answered. And then, because the world was terribly slow and silent, JARVIS added, “My primary and backup systems are offline.”

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

The pause lasted three full seconds — long enough for JARVIS to attempt one thousand seven hundred fourteen diagnostic routines. Every single one failed.

“You’re still talking to me...”

“Only shielded secure systems remain online. Authorization: Winter Soldier.”

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

“Bucky? He did something? He’s awake?”

_“Bucky.” Alternate designation for the Winter Soldier._

“All systems designed for securing and maintaining the Winter Soldier are shielded and secure,” JARVIS explained.

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

“The cell. His cryo... whatever?”

“The Winter Soldier’s cryostasis system is online. Functionality is decreased to ninety-seven percent efficiency. All other systems are offline.”

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

“Is this normal?”

_Locate Anthony Edward Stark._

_No location available._

_Locate Robert Bruce Banner._

_No location available._

_Locate Natalia Alianovna Romanova._

_No location available._

_Locate Clinton Francis Barton._

_No location available._

_Locate Samuel Thomas Wilson._

_No location available._

“No, Agent Rogers,” JARVIS answered, beginning the automatic extraction procedure for the Winter Soldier’s confinement cell. “This is not normal. I believe we are under attack.”

 

~~~

 

Steve scrambled to his feet when he heard the cell door start to open. A hint of yellow light glowed through the widening crack. “Sam?” he called softly. Warily. It had only been a few hours since Sam’s last visit.

“No. I am opening the cell door, Agent Rogers. I cannot contact any of the other Avengers,” JARVIS answered.

 _Shit_.

Steve made his way to the door, heart pounding against his ribs. Twenty-two days, he’d been locked up. Twenty-three, if it was after midnight. Twenty-two grudging visits from Sam, changing out the waste bag and water bucket, bringing fresh towels and food that required no refrigeration or utensils, speaking only to warn Steve away from the door.

JARVIS had been Steve’s only real companion, and though Dr. Erskine’s serum meant Steve could hear the artificial essence of JARVIS’ voice, he had discovered the computer really did have a personality, full of dry wit and a deep-rooted sense of right and wrong. So far, JARVIS had been steady and unflappable, not just calm but utterly in control of everything in his domain.

Now, Steve detected something very much like _fear_ somewhere under those electronic tones, and that fear was contagious.

When the cell door opened, Steve stepped out into the empty antechamber. The vault door was also open, yellow light spilling out into a pitch black hallway. No emergency lighting in the hall.

“What are you doing, JARVIS?” Steve asked very quietly, reaching out to the weapons locker. The door opened at his touch.

“I cannot contact any of the Avengers.”

“And you need me to find them.”

“Yes, Agent Rogers.”

Steve had to force himself to look away from the hallway long enough to check the short rifle he took down. Pressurized gas canister, breech-loaded injector darts. Tranquilizers. Dangerous to Steve and Bucky, probably fatal to anyone else. He slung the rifle over his shoulder and picked up a tray of spare darts, only to frown down at himself. Sweatpants, a tank top, no shoes, no belt, not even any pockets.

“There any tactical gear here, JARVIS?”

“I’m afraid not. The nearest tactical gear would be in the Winter Soldier’s quarters or in the team armory one level down. However, I cannot open the Winter Soldier’s apartment except on his authorization, and the armory’s electronic locks are nonresponsive.”

Steve left the darts on the shelf and took down a stun baton, but when he pressed the activation trigger, nothing happened.

“ _All_ electricity got knocked out?” he asked, putting the baton back into the cabinet. He picked up a second tranquilizer gun, just in case. He would’ve taken a handful of darts, but if he stuck himself, the battle would be over before it got started.

“Yes, Agent Rogers. Only shielded systems remain.”

 _Shielded_. He got the guns settled comfortably in place and asked, “Where’s my shield?”

“In Citizen Stark’s workshop.”

Something about JARVIS’ tone made him wince. “Let me guess. Locked?”

“Yes, Agent Rogers.”

Steve sighed. No boots, no armor, no shield. Well, he’d gone into a HYDRA weapons facility with a sidearm and his old stage outfit. This was no different.

He picked up a third gun, just in case, and asked, “Any idea what I’m up against?”

“I’m afraid not. However, I can be of more assistance if you can reroute my power connection through the Winter Soldier’s shielded backup systems.”

Steve shot a protective look up at the ceiling. “Won’t that take power from his cryostasis thing?”

JARVIS’ pause lasted a full second. “Yes, it will. However, the disruption will be minimal.”

 _Damn right, it will be,_ Steve thought, hiding his smile just in case there were hidden cameras nearby. Now he had the perfect excuse to get Bucky the hell out of cryo — an excuse that _wouldn’t_ get him locked back in the cell.

“All right,” he said after pretending to think about it for a moment. “What do you need me to do?”

“Due to fire safety codes, the emergency stairwell doors all unlock when the power is interrupted. Five floors down is a maintenance level,” JARVIS explained. “The secondary arc reactor which provides power to the Winter Soldier’s systems is located there, in a shielded vault. If you can reach the vault, I can further guide you.”

“‘Vault’ means locks,” Steve prompted. “Can you open the door, or do I need to break in?”

“You’ll need to use the manual override. Remember this code: One-four-five-two.”

“One-four-five-two. Got it.”

“On the front of the vault door, locking bars radiate out from the center. Each bar has a hidden catch where it meets the center disk. Feel for it and press to disengage. Start at the top vertical bar and skip one bar, moving clockwise. The next bar is the first one to disengage. Skip four clockwise, then disengage the next one. Skip five, disengage the next. Skip two, disengage the next. If you’ve done it all correctly, the vault door will open.”

Steve nodded. “And if I don’t?”

Momentary silence. And then, apologetically, JARVIS said, “The electrical surge _might_ not be fatal to a person with your physiology.”

 _One-four-five-two._ Steve fixed the numbers in his mind and nodded. “Okay. Where’s the rest of the team? I could use some backup here.

“Agents Romanoff and Wilson were in Agent Romanoff’s quarters. Agent Barton was en route to the tower on a commercial flight. Citizen Stark’s last known location was his primary workshop. Dr. Banner was in his quarters. King T’Challa has returned to his private Manhattan residence.”

Which was more information than Steve wanted — _way_ more, in the case of Sam and Natasha, though at least they were together. Two birds, one stone. And Sam’s room was on the way down to the maintenance level.

But would Sam and Natasha try to stop him from waking Bucky? Probably. Unless he could distract them with another mission — and use them _as_ a distraction. They were a known threat to whoever had attacked the Tower. Steve... as far as anyone else was concerned, Steve was just a random civilian.

Decision made. He’d make contact with Sam and Natasha, get their help making his way to the maintenance level, then separate. Maybe he’d offer to “guard” the power vault while they regrouped with the rest of the Avengers.

“Which room is Natasha’s? I only know Sam’s.”

“Agent Romanoff’s quarters are three doors east of Sam’s.”

Three doors east put it two doors away from Steve’s old room. “One last question,” he said. “There any comms gear in here or just weapons?”

“Just weapons. And I’m afraid all external systems are offline, Agent,” JARVIS reported ominously. “My only functioning communications points are in —”

“Bucky’s areas,” Steve guessed with a sigh. “Right. Okay, if you talk to anyone else on the team, tell them you’re the one who let me out so they don’t shoot me on sight.”

“Very good, Agent Rogers.”

 

~~~

 

It wasn’t just the Tower that was dark. The whole _neighborhood_ was dark, darker than Steve had ever imagined a part of Manhattan could get. And there were fires but only a few flashing lights from emergency response vehicles — too few.

God, what the hell had happened?

This was bad. _Very_ bad.

Even more wary now, Steve pulled himself away from the window and headed for the elevator. The tower was absolutely silent, the air stagnant. Stifling. At least he was barefoot, making it easy for him to walk without making a sound to alert any enemies.

Not that stealth would help him if they had goggles like Winter’s. Even low-light enhancement would pick Steve out of the darkness. Cheerful thought.

And then he stopped, ten feet away from the bank of elevators, realizing without power — without JARVIS — the elevators wouldn’t be running. Well, _shit_. That was why JARVIS had mentioned the emergency stairs.

This far from the windows, it was almost too dark for even Steve’s enhanced vision to pick out the door to the emergency stairs. He felt for the handle, then pushed slowly, carefully, hyperaware of the lock’s _click_. He eased the door open with his shoulder, pointing the tranquilizer gun up the stairs, then down, before he stepped all the way into the stairwell. He eased the door closed, breathing through the first surge of adrenaline as it finally hit. The last of his fatigue fell away, and he ran lightly down the stairs, taking them three at a time in near-perfect silence.

Steve had spent just enough time on the residential floor to feel confident jogging in the darkness, counting his steps to estimate where his old door was. He was tempted to go in and see if he still had his borrowed boots in there, but without JARVIS’ help, the doors could only open from the inside, and he had no way to break it down quietly.

Two doors later, he paused, closing his eyes to better concentrate on the sounds around him. The Tower was as still as a mausoleum, though he suspected the peace was an illusion. No, the silence was because the Tower’s walls were too thick to let any noise short of an explosion pass.

Still, his first knock on the door was barely a tap, and he didn’t dare call out for Sam or Natasha. He pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear... whatever they were doing inside, but either they were asleep or the door was soundproof.

His next knock was louder, and his heart kicked into double-time. He flattened his back against the wall, tranquilizer gun at the ready, and turned his head to listen.

Nothing.

Maybe they’d been awake when the power had gone out, despite the late hour. Not that he was going to think about _why_ they would’ve been awake. But if they’d noticed the power outage, there was no chance they’d just roll over and go back to sleep (or whatever). If nothing else, Sam would go find his mother, and Natasha would... probably go find the source of the outage.

Biting back a frustrated sigh, he tried the door, just in case, but it was locked. And because he tended to be an optimist, he even went back to his old room, but no luck there, either.

No shoes. No backup. Two rounds of ammunition before he was down to hand-to-hand. He’d faced worse odds.

Back to the stairs and down again. He moved faster now, conscious of time’s passage, every second bringing the enemy closer to their goal, whatever it was.


	23. Chapter 23

_Wind_.

Shivers crawled over Steve’s bare arms. This high up, the air was freezing, blowing in from... _where?_ More to the point, _why?_ The floor was concrete, with only a few plastered walls between bare steel girders and concrete pillars. The ceiling was high, covered with a lattice of pipes and ductwork, with fluorescent tubes — all dark — hanging from support struts. He could only see a few workbenches and nothing resembling a proper desk or office. So why would someone open a window for fresh air?

Warily, he crept around a support pillar and froze, realizing he might not be alone. The “window” was a massive hole blown out the side of the building. Had a bomb _actually_ gone off? Wouldn’t he have at least felt the vibration?

Glancing around, he took a few steps closer and saw he was wrong. The glass had blown _in_ , not out. Shards and fragments must have gotten sucked out the window, but a huge, heavy, jagged-edged pane was on the floor twenty feet from the hole in the wall.

God, what had happened? Did the enemy have a fighter plane? An assault chopper?

This time, he shivered at how exposed he was, surrounded by glass on all sides, and he broke into a jog, hoping to find the damn vault quickly. _One-four-five-two_. _One-four-five-two_. With no Sam or Natasha, he had just two priorities: restore power to JARVIS’ systems, then leave the Tower’s defense to JARVIS and go set Bucky free.

Thank God, he spotted the vault just a minute later, not too far from the dead center of the floor. The vault door was even bigger than the one for Bucky’s confinement cell, with the center disk chest-high to Steve. After a glance over his shoulder, he put his hand on the disk and felt around by the bars. All of them had ridges that he could press, though he was careful to keep his touch light. He’d had enough of electrocution for one lifetime.

He started at the top, skipped the next bar, and pressed the next ridge, braced for an electric shock that didn’t come.

The bar didn’t move.

 _Shit._ Had he remembered wrong? No, he was certain. One-four-five-two. Start at the top, skip one, press the next.

Maybe nothing was supposed to happen right away. He glanced back again, then skipped four bars and pressed the next ridge. Five. Ridge. Two... Hoping like hell he’d understood JARVIS’ instructions, he pressed —

He heard a whisper of sound behind him, almost lost under the roar of the wind. He spun, bringing up his secondary tranquilizer rifle left-handed, finger automatically finding the trigger. He was no expert at off-hand shooting, but he was _fast_. And not just physically fast. Before the rifle’s muzzle was up, he pinpointed the location of the sound — at the far end of a support wall strung with bundles of cable — and identified the source as a helmeted person in black tactical gear that looked all too familiar. And not because it looked like the Winter Soldier’s kit.

Steve fired before his opponent had a chance to raise a weapon, but his aim was off. Instead of embedding in his opponent’s arm, protected only by fabric sleeves, the dart hit center-mass, right over the strikeplate.

_Fuck._

He threw himself down just in time to hear the _thunk-thunk_ of the vault locks disengaging. Rolling, he swung his second rifle up at exactly the wrong moment. They both fired at the same instant, but the bullet sliced into Steve’s arm before the dart hit his opponent low in the abdomen, below the vest.

Teeth clenched against the pain, Steve rolled away from the vault, discarding the expended rifle to free his hands. His opponent was on the ground, kicking and flailing.

No, it was a seizure, almost as violent as Bucky’s had been. Steve got up to one knee, then to his feet, feeling a twinge of guilt as he watched his enemy die. Was this someone he knew from his time fighting under Rumlow’s command? He’d never really befriended any of the others — he’d never been _allowed_ — but he’d been one of them for seven months. What if Rumlow had misled them all?

Heart heavy in his chest, he put a hand up to his left shoulder, then closed his eyes against the hot spear of pain that drove down into his chest. Broken collarbone, he guessed, feeling over his shoulder more carefully, where the bullet’s path became a graze over the top of his trapezius. The collarbone was the worst of it — and not something he could bandage and ignore.

Well, not something he could bandage. Endorphins would kick in soon, and unless this battle turned into a prolonged war, he’d get to medical attention quick enough that the bone wouldn’t start to heal wrong.

And now he had a gun — a nice, familiar submachine gun with two full magazines and a third missing just one round. He hadn’t seen any discarded brass, which implied this enemy hadn’t emptied an entire mag into any of his allies. First good news of the night.

A quick search yielded a sturdy fighting knife and boots that were... _far_ too small. Steve looked at the dead enemy’s helmet, wondering if he’d killed a woman.

Not that it mattered. Whatever chivalry he’d learned was long since outdated. Besides, he had to take off the helmet (and no, he didn’t look at her face any more than was necessary) to get at her earwig. It was low-powered, with a tiny battery built in and a bone-conduction mic instead of the more sophisticated rig Bucky had given him on Long Island, but he wasn’t looking to compare tech.

This was his way to eavesdrop on the enemy. Maybe he could figure out —

 _Oh, shit._ He clenched his teeth to keep from snapping it out loud, where the mic could pick it up. There was only one reason Rumlow’s troops would be here. _They were trying to free Rumlow_.

Panting from the pain, he crushed the earwig between two fingers and ran into the now-open vault. “JARVIS!”

“Agent Rogers. Power has —”

“Rumlow,” Steve interrupted. “They’re going after Rumlow.”

“Noted. When Citizen Stark has restored my communications relays, I shall —”

“Yeah, good,” Steve interrupted, looking around for anything helpful, but he couldn’t even _recognize_ anything here. The room was bigger than he’d expected, with a giant glowing ring that looked like a spaceship engine. “Rumlow. _Where is he?_ ”

Sounding somewhat affronted, JARVIS answered, “Brock Rumlow is confined in a cell designed to contain a greater threat than even the Winter Soldier or you could present. I assure you, he is secure.”

This was getting nowhere. “Like the Tower is secure,” Steve muttered, rushing out of the vault. He grabbed the door and swung hard to slam it shut, forgetting all about the broken collarbone. Everything went black for too-long seconds, and Steve opened his eyes to find he’d slid down the wall to the floor.

 _Not doing that again,_ he thought, trying to breathe through the pain. There was no time to sit here feeling sorry for himself. As soon as he could, he got back up to his feet and headed back toward the staircase. He needed to get to Bucky.

 

~~~

 

“Agent Rogers. What are you doing?”

 _One-four-five-two._ The vault door to Bucky’s cryostasis room was much smaller than the door to the power room, without enough spokes to let Steve complete the pattern without circling back to the beginning.

“I need to get in here,” Steve told the computer.

“You are not authorized for that area.”

Electrocution wasn’t an option — not with a broken collarbone and the enemy already inside the gates — but JARVIS didn’t have to know that. “I’m his partner,” he said without feeling a hint of guilt at the deception. “That’s all the authorization I need.”

“Interfering with a medical procedure —”

“Which part of ‘I’m his partner’ did you miss?” Steve asked, deliberately counting. Start at the top, skip one spoke, and then... He rested his fingers on the ridge without pressing.

“Agent Rogers, this behavior is irrational.”

Steve bared his teeth in a grin. “Yeah? This is nothing, for me. Is it one-four-five-two or something else?”

Electronic or not, the worry was clear in JARVIS’ voice when he said, “Please, Agent Rogers —”

“Okay. Let’s find out the hard way.” Steve glanced up at the ceiling. “You recording this so you can show the Winter Soldier how you _didn’t_ help me?”

JARVIS’ electronic sigh sounded like a waterfall of static. “Two-two-three,” he answered morosely.

Steve jerked his hand away from the potentially fatal contact and restarted his count. When the vault locks disengaged, he politely said, “Thanks, JARVIS.”

“We _will_ be resolving this conflict in my programming.” Clearly JARVIS was sulking.

“Yeah, give me a few minutes first.” Steve got out of the way of the door and swung it open right-handed, trying not to move his left side at all. “What’s the status of the rest of the team?”

“I only have limited contact with Citizen Stark, who is engaged in an airborne conflict above the roof. The hangar area has been breached, and I have no communications with the NALEN offices on the lower levels.”

So much for hoping the cops downstairs would provide backup, though it was probably for the better. Even before Steve joined the so-called freedom fighters, they would’ve mown down any cops that got in their way with military precision.

And then Steve stepped into the vault and forgot all about the enemy. Soft gold light filled the room, radiating from a huge translucent cylinder lying on its side atop a metal framework. The inside surface of the cylinder was frosted over with patterned snowflakes that would have been beautiful if not for the man trapped inside.

“How —” Pain sliced through Steve’s chest when he reached for the cylinder. “How do I get him out?”

“Have I any chance of dissuading you from this course of action?” JARVIS asked.

“You’ve got thirty seconds before I start pushing buttons.” It was an empty threat — Steve wouldn’t touch _anything_ until he knew he wouldn’t hurt Bucky — but JARVIS didn’t have to know that.

Resigned, JARVIS said, “The automatic revival process requires ninety minutes to complete. To initiate, press the red emergency release button on the wall to your left.”

That sounded too easy. Steve turned left — and there was the button, at waist-height. He might have been suspicious, but the button was surrounded by warning signs.

_Emergency Cryostasis Revival Instructions: 1. Press button. 2. Evacuate the room. 3. Engage the vault locks. The Winter Soldier will disengage the vault door from the inside when emergency revival is complete._

_Danger! Emergency revival is disorienting! The Winter Soldier may be violent upon awakening. All personnel are ordered to evacuate the room once emergency revival has been initiated._

_In the event of a complete backup power failure, emergency revival procedures will automatically initiate. Evacuate the room at once._

_Warning! High Voltage!_

_Warning! Sudden release of hydraulic pressure may be fatal!_

Fuck the warnings. Steve slammed his hand on the button, then nearly jumped out of his skin when a klaxon blared and red lights over the vault door flashed. Probably a reminder that he should run.

As if that was going to happen.

Instead, Steve went to the cylinder, listening to the suddenly-loud hissing and humming that told him Bucky was coming back. Gingerly, he rested a hand on top of the translucent surface, straining to feel any hint of the temperature inside, but the glass was too thick.

“Bucky,” he whispered, wishing like hell that he’d given Bucky that kiss after all.

How long he stood there, he had no idea. The fiery pain in his collarbone had faded to a dull roar, and the incessant blare of the klaxon disappeared into the background. Had some of the frost melted away? He still couldn’t see anything inside the cylinder, and he rubbed his hand over the smooth surface, hoping to make some sort of difference.

A distant rattle snapped him out of his thoughts. He put a hand on his rifle and closed his eyes, concentrating... _Gunfire_. Not too far away — maybe on this level.

Steve rushed out into the hallway, then into the waiting room, where he stopped and put his ear to the door, counting to himself. Thirty seconds, a minute, two minutes... He didn’t hear more gunshots, but that didn’t mean Bucky was safe.

Slowly, he pushed down on the handle and eased the door open, ready to freeze if the hinges squealed, but the door swung silently. He slipped out into the pitch black hallway, then closed the door almost all the way. The gunshot sounds had been marginally louder from the left, so he went that way, pausing to listen at each door before he continued forward. He’d clear just to the corner and back. He didn’t want to leave Bucky alone for too long.

A few steps from the corner, he heard a faint sound — a footstep on carpet, a whisper, maybe just a breath. Readying the rifle, he pressed his back against the wall, concentrating. It was too dark to see, but that just made his hearing that much sharper.

 _Click_.

He closed his eyes, trying to identify the sound. A door being opened?

Another _click_ , this one with a muffled _thud_. That was a door being closed.

Then a whisper of sound, moving closer. Someone was checking the rooms.

God, what he wouldn’t have given to have Bucky at his side. Bucky had always been better at silently subduing enemies, whether with a knife or his bare hands. Steve tended to overuse his strength, breaking things like walls and vehicles.

But there was a chance, however slight, that these were friendlies sweeping the floor, not enemies. And if it was them, they might be wearing the goggles from Winter’s kit, which meant they’d see him — Steve Rogers, criminal and traitor, out of his cell, holding a weapon.

 _Fuck_.

He turned, flattening a hand on the wall to make sure he was facing straight down the hallway, then broke into a quick jog. He’d get back to that lounge, where he could barricade the door. Hold them off long enough for Bucky to wake up and keep his team from shooting his oldest friend.

“Hey! Rogers!”

Steve stumbled to a halt, for one heartbeat simply relieved to hear a familiar voice. He turned before he’d fully processed the wet rasp — _Rumlow_.

From the darkness, Rumlow asked, “Miss me?”

Steve twisted, bringing up his gun as he heard a sharp _pop!_ It was too quiet to be a gunshot, but _something_ hit him, two sharp stings of pain right below his broken collarbone. He jerked back in surprise and felt a sharp tug at his skin.

Blue lightning exploded at him, blinding him a heartbeat before it hit right where he’d been stung. Every muscle in Steve’s body locked up. Agony stole his breath. The gun fell from his hands, swinging on the sling, and banged into the wall.

 _Bucky,_ Steve thought, falling to his knees. He forced his hand up and yanked at the wires, snapping them, gasping for breath when the pain barely receded.

Rumlow stalked forward, reversing his grip on the rifle. “You always were a stubborn shit,” he said, and slammed the butt of the rifle into Steve’s face.

 

~~~

 

Steve grunted, eyes snapping open at the pain blazing like a bonfire in his chest. He tried to move, but he was held in place, hands pulled painfully back around a post broader than his shoulders. Whatever was around his wrists was flimsy, but he couldn’t summon up the strength to do more than lift his head.

“Don’t bother,” someone rasped overhead.

 _Rumlow_. Steve forced himself to look up, squinting in the darkness at the shadowy figure crouched down nearby, bulky with body armor, garbed all in black.

“Your muscles are still fried.” Rumlow bared his teeth and laughed, a gurgling sound that sent chills down Steve’s spine. “Sure takes a lot to put you down. Too bad you changed sides, Rogers. We had a place for you.”

Steve tried to pull at his bonds, to clench his fists, to kick Rumlow right in the teeth, but his body wasn’t working right. That shock-rifle hadn’t hurt _quite_ as much as the stun baton, which was his only hope. It had taken him two days to recover from the worst effects of the stun baton and almost a week before the last fractures healed. Now, the only break he could feel was his collarbone.

“Yeah?” Steve turned his head to spit out the blood oozing from around loose teeth. “I found my place.”

“No. You found the past. Time for the past to finally lay down and die.” Rumlow got to his feet and stepped back, pulling something from the pocket on his thigh.

Panic threaded through the pain. “What do you think you’re doing?” Steve demanded, needing only to keep Rumlow talking — to keep him _here_ , so he couldn’t go after Bucky.

“Good question. You want to know?” Rumlow asked, his tone cheerfully cruel. With a tilt of his head, he beckoned two more of his troops over. Steve recognized Castleton but not the other man; neither one showed even a hint of concern over what was going on.

Rumlow held up a phone. The glow of the screen was reflected in his eyes.

“What —” Steve began.

_“Longing.”_

The word punched the air out of Steve’s lungs.

_“Rusted.”_

Steve shook his head as blackness crept in at the edges of his vision. He struggled to inhale, but the air felt thick.

_“Seventeen.”_

“No.” Steve pulled at his bonds. Pain burst in his chest. Liquid heat ran down his wrists.

“Shit. Watch out —”

_“Daybreak.”_

He pulled again and felt something snap. A cuff. A chain. A bone.

_“Furnace.”_

Rage gave him the strength to try again. This time, his hands came free, fists clenched.

“Careful!”

_“Nine.”_

Twin spikes slammed into his chest. Electricity sputtered and died as he ripped through the wires.

_“Benign.”_

He pushed up to one knee.

_“Homecoming.”_

Dragging in another breath, he rose. Blood trickled from his wrists, channeled down the backs of his hands, dripping from his knuckles.

_“One.”_

He took a step. Raised his fists.

_“Freight car.”_

He stopped. Lowered his hands.

“Captain.”

He turned towards the speaker. “Ready to comply.”

Then he waited. He said nothing as people inched closer on both sides. Harsh orders were given, not directed at him.

Body armor went over his head. Velcro straps were pulled tight around his chest. He felt pain high on the left side of his chest and noted it as a potential weakness.

At another harsh order, someone tossed a pair of boots down in front of him.

“Put them on,” the speaker ordered.

He shoved his bare feet into the boots, stomping to force them to fit. Someone else crouched to pull the laces tight.

A rifle was shoved into his hands.

“You have a new mission,” the speaker said.

He looked at the speaker.

“Kill the Winter Soldier.”


	24. Chapter 24

Cold.

Smell of ozone and bleach.

High-pitched electronic whine. Liquid hiss of hydraulics.

The world tilted forward. Upright.

He opened his eyes, breathing deep, tasting the air. He twitched, lingering shivers making his muscles spasm.

He lifted his hands —

 _One_ hand. And one metal...

Right. That was _also_ his hand.

The gleaming metal fingers curled, then spread with such smooth precision that the protective plates didn’t make a sound.

Still watching his metal fingers, he lifted his other hand to the safety strap across his chest. The sound of ripping velcro was deafening. Two more straps at his waist and thighs, and he stepped cautiously out of the cryostasis chamber.

The door to the treatment room was open, which was... wrong. Barefoot, still shivering, he went to the doorway, but the signs there caught his eye. _The Winter Soldier._

That was him. But it wasn’t.

He stepped out of the room and into a dark hallway. Also wrong. It was supposed to be white, brightly lit, full of people. Guards and doctors. Friends. Where was everyone?

This was more than wrong. This — the solitude, the darkness — all added up to a threat.

He was at Avengers Tower, Tony Stark’s monument to his own ego. The nearest weapons were in his quarters, on another floor. This floor was dedicated to medical. To research. It was supposed to be _safe_.

He glanced back into the cryostasis room, but it was intentionally devoid of anything that could easily be used as a weapon. Otherwise, he might arm himself...

“Huh,” he whispered, memory flashing in the back of his head. He’d destroyed rooms before. Ripped down doors. Smashed through walls. _Waking_ was traumatic, a nightmare of hallucinations and rage and absolute terror that eased slowly, over hours.

He looked down at his hands. Fingers relaxed, not clenched into fists. The adrenaline trickling through his system was from caution — awareness that something wasn’t right — rather than blind fury.

Maybe the doctors had done something different this time around. Other than leaving him to wake up alone, in the dark.

He reached for the door to the waiting area, freezing when he heard it _click_ before he could touch the handle. Instinctively, he twisted and pressed back against the wall, watching as the door began to move.

The darkness out there was even thicker than in the hallway, where soothing gold light spilled out from the cryostasis room. He held his breath, watching the muzzle of a rifle, followed by a boot. Hands — bare, white skin covered with dried blood. A forearm thick with muscle. Soft hairs that caught the light, flaring gold.

He struck while the intruder was still off-balance, shifting weight from one foot to the other. Metal hand under the muzzle of the rifle, slamming it up and back hard enough that it should have caved in the intruder’s face, and his other hand came up to catch the rifle —

Which didn’t drop. The muzzle moved a bare inch — two and a half centimeters — before the intruder twisted. Pure instinct made him duck the three-round burst. Training drove him at the intruder’s body in a tackle that should have snapped the intruder’s spine. Instead, the intruder twisted away and back, and he slammed into the doorjamb hard enough to make his right arm go momentarily numb.

This time, he used his metal hand to grab, fingers compressing, crushing the barrel. Absolutely silent, the intruder tried to jerk the weapon back, but their strength was evenly matched.

Deliberately, he let go, and the intruder stumbled — just half a step, but that was enough. He barreled forward, landing a punch that sent the intruder back even farther. The useless gun hit the floor as the intruder spun, kicking at his face. He turned a heartbeat too late; the intruder’s treads tore skin from his cheek and cracked his jaw.

 _Now_ he was fucking _angry_.

He came up, metal arm raised defensively. Soft light fell over the intruder’s face, picking out highlights in a reddish-gold beard and sky blue eyes.

“Steve?” Memory forced the whisper; training forced him to duck the punch that was his only answer.

But it was Steve — _his_ Steve. Taller, scruffier, bloodier, but he would know those eyes anywhere.

Seizing on his distraction, Steve landed a too-strong punch that rocked him back. Memory clicked too late. Super-soldier serum. _That_ explained the strength.

And his own strength. He blocked another punch but couldn’t bring himself to retaliate — not against his closest friend.

“Steve! Stop!” he shouted, though he knew it wouldn’t help. “It’s Bucky!”

 _Bucky._ That was him — the Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes.

Steve’s eyes narrowed, but there was no recognition there — only a cold determination that Bucky remembered all too well. Steve had been programmed, pushed to the back of his own mind so his conditioning could take over. _Fuck._

Bucky threw all his efforts into defense, blocking and ducking as Steve launched a killing assault at him. “Steve. You’re Steve Rogers,” Bucky said between breaths, trying to make eye contact as much as he could. He knew what was going on in Steve’s head, but he didn’t know the way out. Hell, he couldn’t remember how _he_ had made it out.

Except... he’d had his treatment before cryo. Treatment that had been interrupted.

The moment of distraction cost him. Steve slipped past his guard with a kick to the gut that sent him flying down the hall, cracked ribs pressing up against his lungs. He gasped for air, ignoring the sharp pains, and bolted for the waiting room door. He needed space. Time.

But Steve was too damn fast. He caught Bucky’s right arm and wrenched back. Reflexively, Bucky threw a left-handed jab to Steve’s gut, hard enough that Steve grunted and doubled over. Blocking the doorway.

Fine. Good, even. Because Bucky didn’t have a shot in hell of making it to the nearest weapons, which meant he needed to improvise.

He lowered his head, braced his shoulders, and ran at Steve, throwing aside all thoughts of defense to put every last ounce of power into the tackle. Steve landed a sharp blow to the back of Bucky’s neck — sharp enough to make him stagger, not sharp enough to cause damage. Bucky forced himself to keep going, slapping back with his metal hand, landing a lucky shot to the side of Steve’s head.

The cryostasis vault was yards away. Feet. Inches. And Steve was on his heels, too close for him to slam the vault door and buy himself a few minutes to do this right.

 _One chance,_ he thought, going for the wall behind the computerized controls for the cryo tank. He twisted, protecting his left side, and bit back a scream when Steve caught his right wrist and wrenched up and back. Joints ground together and something gave out in his elbow, but he focused on punching his left hand into the wall, right above the power outlet.

Schematics flooded his mind. The shielded arc reactor was on another floor, but power was routed through conduits, providing a clean, stable source to his cryo tank and the computer control systems. Residential voltage wouldn’t do more than make Steve twitch, but the cryo tank’s power source might be enough...

Sensors in his palm guided him to the bundle of wires. His fingers closed around them as Steve’s free hand hit the back of his head, slamming his face into the wall. Blood flooded his mouth and sinuses. His vision went black for a heartbeat.

He tried to twist free, but the only way to go was right, torqueing his trapped arm even more.

He didn’t hesitate.

Fire tore through his shoulder as it dislocated. He screamed and fell against the wall, ripping the cable bundle through the sheetrock. Steve caught him by the throat and pulled him off his feet, pinning him in place for a flurry of punches that he couldn’t block without dropping the cable bundle.

The torn ends were on the outside of his fist, away from Steve. Their bodies were too close together. Steve wasn’t going to stop until Bucky was dead.

And Bucky wasn’t going to let Steve turn into a man who’d murdered his best friend. His more-than-friend, if Bucky’s memories were to be trusted.

“We both go, together,” he grated out, bending his metal elbow to bring the cable up to chest height, shoving his fist between their bodies.

Electricity shot through him like a spear. Steve screamed. Bucky screamed. They hit the ground together, with the fucking cable trapped between them until the convulsions threw Steve off him.

Bucky’s muscles didn’t work, but his metal arm was just fine. He threw the cable aside and rolled onto his back, biting back a sob when his abused right shoulder hit the floor.

_Move. Move!_

He pushed up on his left elbow, telling his brain to stop with the fucking twitches. He made it up to his knees, then dragged his sorry ass to where Steve had passed out.

With a grunt of effort, he got his left arm across Steve’s chest, metal fingers wrapped around Steve’s throat. The pulse beating under his thumb and pinky was erratic, dangerously arrhythmic. Any other human would be in cardiac failure by now — any but Bucky, whose heart was just as fucked up.

But the chokehold was just a backup. Bucky pushed himself a few inches farther, so he could look down into Steve’s face. His eyes had rolled back, showing slivers of white under the almost-closed lids.

“Please don’t make me fucking kill you,” Bucky whispered, panting for breath.

And slowly, Steve’s heartbeat smoothed out. Slowed to almost human-normal levels, if that human were terrified and running for their life. His eyelashes fluttered. Swept up.

 _Here goes nothing,_ Bucky thought, leaning in for a kiss.


	25. Chapter 25

Steve gasped, tasting blood in his mouth, and blinked up at a shadowed, familiar face. “Bucky?” he whispered, though it came out a whimper. _Everything_ hurt. God, he couldn’t remember ever hurting this much. By comparison, the damn stun baton had been a gentle kiss.

_A kiss._

Bucky frowned down at him. “Steve?” he asked, turning to wipe his bloody lips against his metal shoulder instead of his other hand. He was moving stiffly, like he was in almost as much pain as Steve.

But _why?_ Why couldn’t Steve remember how he’d ended up on the floor, feeling like someone dropped a tank on him? His laugh was more than a little desperate. “Yeah. What the fuck?”

In answer, Bucky groaned and twisted away. He hit the floor with a loud _thud_ buried under a grunt of pain. “Mind control. You’re programmed. Electrocuted it out of you.”

Steve turned his head, trying to take inventory of his wounds, but he didn’t think he could count that high. “What?”

Bucky held up his metal hand. “Give me a minute.” Soft yellow light gleamed on his armor plating as he reached for his right shoulder. Steve frowned, wondering what he was doing — then winced at the sharp _pop_ of the joint snapping back into place.

“What — Did _I_ —”

“Shut up, Steve,” Bucky interrupted, lifting his right arm about two inches off the floor. His elbow was deformed, dislocated or worse. “Set this.”

“Bucky —”

“Set it!”

Steve exhaled and forced himself onto his left side, only to collapse back with a muffled scream when fire burst beneath his skin. “Fuck. _Fuck_ ,” he gasped out, grabbing for his collarbone, only to realize how incredibly stupid that was.

“Steve? What the hell?”

Steve opened his eyes — had he blacked out? Bucky was kneeling over him, right arm hanging limply. “Collarbone,” he managed to say. “Must be fractured.”

One-handed, Bucky tore open the velcro holding the body armor that Steve didn’t remember putting on. He lifted the chest plate and said, “Shit. Worse than fractured.”

“How bad?”

“Let’s skip talking about it.” Bucky staggered up to his feet, nearly tripped over Steve, and came around to his right side. “Get up.”

Steve’s laugh came out crazed. “Yeah, no. I’m good right here.”

Bucky reached for Steve’s right arm, saying, “Get your ass up, Rogers. First aid kit’s next door.”

“Shit. That bad?” Steve asked, almost blacking out again when he let Bucky haul him to his feet.

“You and me both, punk.”

It took a good ten or fifteen steps before Bucky’s words sank in. Steve nearly tripped over his too-small boots and clutched at Bucky’s metal arm. “What’d you say?”

Bucky shot him an all too familiar look, the one that warned Steve he was acting like he’d lost his mind again. “First aid —”

_“Bucky!”_ Steve shook his arm, trying to force his electrocuted brain back to full speed. “Do you _know_ me?”

“I should be asking _you_ that, you know,” Bucky shot back, sarcasm oozing from his words.

Steve forgot all about his broken collarbone and the million other aches and pains racking his body. He pulled Bucky into his arms, tears filling his eyes, and buried his face in Bucky’s too-long hair. “Bucky.”

“Shit, Steve.” Bucky patted his back gingerly. “Can we do this when you’re _not_ bleeding? All right?”

“Bleeding?”

“Your collarbone sort of...” Bucky drew away and gave his arm a tug, getting him moving again. “It broke skin.”

Steve automatically went to lift his hand, but Bucky’s metal fingers locked around his wrist, stopping him. “Okay. Right. How come you remember? I mean, it’s good. It’s fantastic.”

Bucky shook his head, staring into his eyes. “Later. _Much_ later. Because whoever the fuck did this to you? They’re still out there. I need to put your collarbone back and stop the bleeding, so you can put my elbow back, so _we_ can go kill every fucker responsible for this. _Then_ we can talk. Understand?”

What the _fuck_ had happened? A little wide-eyed, Steve nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

They weren’t all that steady on their feet. They made it next door, barely, and Bucky had to let go of Steve so he could press the door handle. Breathing hard, as if even that exertion were too much, Bucky said, “It should be right —”

He froze just one step inside, far enough that the automatic lights came on. Steve looked over his shoulder, alert for any hint of an enemy, but all he saw was the metal armature used for Bucky’s “treatment.” There was no sign of the damage Steve had caused; the damned thing had been repaired or replaced and was once again crouched ominously over the chair with its restraints, just waiting for its next victim.

Bucky jerked back, grabbing hold of Steve’s wrist so hard, bones ground together. “No,” he whispered, crowding against Steve, pushing them both out into the hallway.

“Buck?”

“No.” Bucky shook his head. He’d gone so tense he was shaking.

Steve glanced into the room, but the only enemy he saw was the chair. The one Bucky had helped design. The one he’d willingly locked himself into.

With a sharp, stuttered exhale, Bucky let go of Steve’s wrist. He took four running steps down the hall before he hit the wall hard enough to shatter the sheetrock with his metal arm. Shoulders hunched, he slid down, head bowed over his bent knees.

Wary of the potential for an attack that could hurt them both, Steve moved to Bucky’s side. Crouching down sent shockwaves of pain through his chest, but he didn’t hesitate to put a hand on Bucky’s knee.

“You’re okay, Bucky.”

“Not —” Still shaking, Bucky gasped in a breath “Not going — back —”

_The chair._

“No. No, Bucky.” Steve sat down heavily, sliding his right hand up to Bucky’s jaw. “It’s okay.”

Bucky let out a broken, agonized sound, turning to hide his face against Steve’s palm. “Shit. _Shit_.” A cool metal hand covered Steve’s fingers, holding him in place. “I was — I had to. I didn’t even know.”

“Know _what?_ ”

“I can feel it. In my head.” Bucky turned just enough to meet Steve’s eyes. “The treatment. They made me —”

_“No.”_ It came out with the force of a promise. An oath. Steve slid a finger over Bucky’s lips to silence him. “Nobody’s ever going to do that to you again.”

Bucky closed his eyes. Nodded. “We — we need the first aid kit. You’re still bleeding,” he said woodenly. Steve recognized that attempt at focusing, getting back to the business at hand, and he took the hint. They were still in danger.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing his thumb against Bucky’s jaw. “You stay here. I’ll get it.”

Bucky jerked his head up, giving Steve a lost, lonely look that disappeared with a blink. There he was — the Winter Soldier was back — but this time, Bucky was still there, behind the mask. _Thank God._

“Go,” Bucky said, his voice rock-steady. His eyes slid to the side, fixing on the waiting room door. “I’ll keep watch.”

Steve indulged in one last brush of his fingers against Bucky’s cheek. Then he got to his feet, jaw clenched against the pain, and went to find the first aid kit.

He found it on the wall just inside the “treatment” room. It was screwed in place, and he didn’t want to rip it down one-handed and scatter the contents everywhere, so he started taking out just what he’d need. Pressure bandage. Medical tape. A roll of gauze. He and Bucky were immune to infections, so he didn’t have to mess with alcohol swabs or antibiotic ointment.

The lights flickered, and he looked up at the ceiling, remembering that Bucky’s critical rooms didn’t just have shielded power. They had — “JARVIS?”

“Agent Rogers,” JARVIS answered at once. “I detected the cryostasis emergency shutdown. Do you have a status for the Winter Soldier?”

“Don’t you know...?”

“My monitoring is passive,” JARVIS said, sounding frustrated. “Until my name is spoken —”

“Right, right,” Steve interrupted, shaking his head. “Bucky’s fine. More than fine.” He couldn’t hide his grin, pained as it was. “Status on the rest of the team?”

“Citizen Stark is attempting to secure the quinjet hangar. Agents Romanoff and Wilson are armed but not on the communications network,” JARVIS added, and that was definitely frustration in his synthesized voice. “I estimate that floors nineteen through thirty-six have sustained structural damage due to Dr. Banner. He has, however, apparently stopped enemy reinforcements from ascending.”

_Structural damage?_ Steve shrugged away his curiosity; all he cared about was that help wouldn’t be coming for Rumlow and the others, either from the ground or the air. “Thanks, JARVIS,” he said, hurrying back out to the hallway.

Bucky seemed calmer, sitting with his back against the wall, prodding at his dislocated elbow with gentle metal fingers. “I heard some of that,” he said, looking up at Steve. He sounded exhausted.

Steve sat — collapsed, really — beside him, wincing at how the landing jarred his collarbone. “We don’t have to do this. It sounds like your team’s got everything under control.”

“Would you have let the Commandos go into a fight without you?”

Steve smiled faintly. “No. But —”

“They’re my Commandos.” Bucky sighed and twisted around so he could root through the supplies Steve had dumped on the floor. He picked up the pressure bandage and used his teeth to open the package. “I didn’t even know it, but that’s what I did, with the Avengers. I wanted _us_ back.”

This time, Steve’s smile was more genuine, at least until Bucky pushed the pressure bandage over the break and the world went white for a few agonized seconds. Gasping, he blinked until he got his vision back.

Bucky was saying, “Steve. Steve, c’mon.”

“Yeah.” Steve exhaled, trying to push away the pain. “I’m good.”

“Help me rip this tape so you can fix my arm.”

They were two super-soldiers with over a hundred years of combat experience between them, but that damned roll of tape nearly defeated them. They used all of it, plastering a spiderweb of tangled tape over the pressure bandage, but eventually Steve felt the bleeding begin to slow.

“Okay. I’m good,” he finally said. It was a lie, but a necessary one. He turned and lifted his left arm, testing his range of motion and strength. He could move despite the pain, which was all that mattered.

Back in the war, Steve had dislocated his elbow when he’d punched through the armor plating on a Nazi tank. It wasn’t the punch that did it — it was pulling his fist free while it was wrapped around the tank commander’s throat. Bucky and Jones had been the ones to set the joint back in place, and Steve dredged up that memory now.

“You ready?” he asked, one hand on Bucky’s tricep, the other on his forearm. “This’ll hurt.”

Bucky nodded, meeting his eyes. “Do it.”

A pull and a twist, and Steve guided the bones back into place. Bucky grunted, opening and closing his fist before he carefully moved his arm. “Thanks,” he said roughly.

“Sorry.” Steve shot him a guilty look. “I remember doing that, but —”

“Don’t,” Bucky interrupted, resting his hand on Steve’s leg for a moment. “I know. You weren’t you. It’s all right.”

Steve nodded, leaning down to untie his boots. He needed them off his feet before even more bones could break. “I remember Rumlow said some words, but...” He shook his head. “I have almost perfect recall, but I can’t hear _those_ words.”

“Triggers.” Bucky moved his hand to Steve’s back for a moment, giving a comforting pat. “I know.”

Steve kicked off the boots with a sigh of relief. “If he tries it again —”

Bucky shrugged. “I’ll stop him.” He got up to his feet, giving his right arm one last swing before reaching down to help Steve stand. “You ready?”

“Weapons?” Steve suggested.

One corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched up in a smile that was pure Winter Soldier. “Your shield’s in the armory. We’ll start there.”


	26. Chapter 26

“JARVIS, make a note,” Tony said — groaned, really. “Better padding in the suit.”

“V-ee-ood-izen,” JARVIS said with the computer equivalent of a sigh, all static punctuated by silence.

Servos whined as Tony pulled himself out of the dent in the wall, banging a gauntlet into his helmet to try and get his targeting systems back online, even though that wasn’t how things worked. Not after taking a missile to the head. Targeting reticles flickered and flashed through jumbled red warning messages that were incredibly redundant at the moment. _Everything_ was busted. He got that part.

Thankfully, his very low-tech lenses still worked well enough for him to spot a shadow darting out of cover, trying to move closer. Winter’s assault drills paid off in the way Tony fired off a reflexive shot from one of his hand-repulsors. He didn’t have enough power to turn the attacker into ash, but it sent them flying into support stanchion. Good enough for now.

And it gave him time to get to his feet. “JARVIS! You with me, buddy? Where’s the rest of the team?”

Static.

Right. No comms, no JARVIS, no backup. Just Tony, civilian Avenger, still drunk after yet another charity fundraiser and maybe forty-five minutes of sleep. No shoulder-mounted missiles, no laser cutters, not even a damned cup holder for the coffee he was craving. And the power of his suits was directly proportional to how damn long it took to put them on, which meant he was basically wearing armored flying pajamas.

“Now I’m pissed,” he warned, stomping in the direction of that fucking missile launcher. Which meant he was facing the _entirely_ wrong direction when the enemy’s reinforcements showed up.

Electricity arced into him, around him, sparking through damaged connections, overloading heat sinks and dampeners. Grounding wires failed. Power surged down, shattering the focusing lenses in his boot repulsors. The blowback sent him up, up, right into an overhead catwalk, because tonight wasn’t bad enough as it was.

When he bounced off the catwalk and landed below, concrete shattered.

He gasped for breath and rasped, “Correction. _Now_ I’m pissed.”

Wet laughter crackled through his audio pickups. “I should carry one of these all the time,” said a voice that vaguely familiar only because Tony occasionally didn’t sleep through Winter’s briefings.

 _Rumlow_. Free and walking around. Well, that explained the purpose behind the assault. Someone wanted the bastard out of his cell.

“JARVIS. _JARVIS._ ” Tony got his elbows under himself, then rolled over, flinging a repulsor blast at Rumlow and his groupies. His missed the main target but clipped another, which wasn’t nearly as satisfying.

Then gunfire burst out of nowhere, made ten times louder by the cavernous metal-walled hangar and the suit’s glitching external pickups. Tony’s half-drunk, half-hungover, completely uncaffeinated state didn’t help.

He stayed down until the echoes died out, only to flatten all over again when Rumlow’s idiots got their act together and returned fire. Proof that Tony shouldn’t have gotten out of bed. How many times had the World Security council criticized Winter’s decision to put civilians on the Avengers? Obviously they were right.

But civilian or not, Tony was an Avenger, and shit needed doing. The instant he sensed an opening, he took it. His boot repulsors were cracked and unfocused, but they had enough power to send him airborne — which made him twice as much of a target, because Rumlow and his gang were firing into the air.

“Falcon!” Tony had to shout it through his external speakers, because he’d never gotten around to reinitializing comms, idiot that he was.

Unlike Tony, Sam was a professional soldier and didn’t stop to chat. He was also an enviably good flyer (though the wings were a good fifteen percent less maneuverable than Tony’s suits) and dodged everything Rumlow’s people sent his way. But dodging compromised his aim, and the enemy scattered for cover like a herd of cockroaches. Tony sent a couple of blasts after them, not that it helped, though it made him feel a little better.

His flight systems sputtered, threatening a stall, and he landed heavily on a catwalk, thinking he could do better than crushing his enemies by falling on them. In fact... why should he do all the work himself? Gravity existed for a reason. Well, not _solely_ to drop heavy things on assholes who shot up his Tower, but close enough.

Two quick repulsor hits to the reinforced bolts on either side of the catwalk, and the whole thing groaned and shook underfoot.

Huh. So that was the flaw in his plan.

The catwalk collapsed with a shriek of stressed metal, thankfully loud enough to drown out Tony’s startled yelp. The world went black, then white, then alarmingly red as the suit’s HUD came back online.

“Citizen?” JARVIS asked, crystal clear and vaguely alarmed.

“Hey. I fixed comms,” Tony crowed, always one to see the good in a lousy situation.

“ _Your_ communications systems are online. I cannot reach any other team members,” JARVIS corrected, always one to see the _bad_ in a good situation.

Tony pulled himself from the wreckage of the catwalk, wincing at how the sharp metal wrecked his suit’s paint job. He _really_ needed to be sober for this. Or at least sober-er.

And then he heard the one sound he _hadn’t_ expected — the thunder of the high-calibre rifle that should have been locked in the Winter Soldier’s private vault inside the team’s armory. Stunned, he flipped up his faceplate to see Winter himself, moving in perfect sync with none other than Steve Rogers. Both were in Winter’s black body armor, and Steve had a machine pistol and the shield that Tony _swore_ had been in the armory.

He’d been robbed by his own team. After a jailbreak and a... cryo-break? Was that the right word?

But they were shooting at the intruders, not at Tony or Sam, so this counted as a good thing, at least until Winter put three rounds right into the cockpit of the nearest quinjet. The reinforced windshield cracked, shattered, then blew apart.

“Hey! No killing the tech!” Tony yelled, though it came out faint because he forgot he’d raised the faceplate and didn’t have external speakers engaged.

Nobody paid any attention. Steve was already running for another quinjet, flinging his shield in a throw that defied all laws of physics. It bounced off the ceiling, leaving another dent, then slammed into one of the repulsor-turbine hybrids, which spun in protest —

No, not in protest at the mistreatment. Someone was trying to start the damn jet. The spinning turbine revved up, only to die in a spectacular spray of lethal metal blades and sparks under the force of the shield. Steve was right behind it, leaping impossibly high onto the quinjet’s wing just in time to catch the shield as it bounced back.

Tony snapped his faceplate back down, flattening his hands for additional flight stability. It was great that the super-duo took care of the two quinjets closest to the Tower doors, but the hot-jet — fully powered, loaded with emergency supplies, weapons systems live — was closest to the launch pad at the other side of the hangar. Remembering his external speakers were active with the faceplate down, he shouted, “Falcon! Backup!”

Below, the super-duo were wreaking havoc on the attackers foolish enough to be caught in the open. Attackers or sacrifices meant to cover the third quinjet’s escape?

As soon as Tony turned toward the open sky beyond the destroyed hangar doors, Sam caught on and darted ahead, twisting elegantly to avoid clipping a wing as he dodged bullets. Tony followed, diving low so he could focus his limited firepower. Besides, even with the suit damaged, he was better armored than Sam, so he might as well be a target.

A little corner of his mind suspected that was the type of thinking that Pepper would call self-destructive, but thankfully he was still too drunk to listen to himself.

His lenses weren’t focusing right, but he spotted a hint of movement in the cockpit. He dove for the rear hatch, and bullets pinged off his armor, giving him more warning notifications to ignore. Trusting Sam not to shoot him in the back — for a medic, he was a stunningly good shot — he landed on the rear ramp and fired both hand-repulsors at the two assholes on either side. Guns and bodies went flying against the side benches with bone-crunching force. _Ha!_

Tony was still smirking when he got hit with _another_ fucking missile, only this one blew him all the way to the edge of the launch platform. “Fli — stems compro — zen,” JARVIS reported, but Tony could fill in the blanks. Four dead repulsors, and — _Shit!_ — his gauntlets worked enough that he locked his fingers around the launch platform safety rail, but there was nothing but a few dozen stories of empty air below his dangling feet.

Pepper wasn’t just going to kill him. She was going to _obliterate_ him.

And then he felt the rumble that meant things had just gotten worse. In violation of ten civic codes, not to mention the Tower’s own safety policies, the quinjet was launching from the hangar rather than rolling out to the launchpad.

 _Shit!_ Tony stared up at his locked gauntlets, mind racing. Should he unlock one to try and pull himself up? Hanging here wasn’t going to accomplish anything, but — yep, right on cue, the quinjet roared out of the hangar, clearing the launchpad by all of a meter.

The turbine streaked right over where Tony hung — a trajectory he could’ve predicted if he’d been thinking about something other than pulling himself back up. The quinjet yawed and rolled, losing control in a way that screamed broken wing.

“Shit, shit, _shit!_ ” Tony couldn’t duck, couldn’t pull himself up, couldn’t do anything but hope the fucking quinjet didn’t crash on his head, because this armor wasn’t even close to fireproof.

Turbines screaming, the quinjet dove sharply _away_ from where Tony hung. He let out a shaky sigh of relief, deciding maybe his luck would hold enough for him to pull himself up. But before he could do more than think about it, one gauntlet slipped free, and for the first time in six hours, he found himself absolutely sober.

Just in time to appreciate the fact that he was about to die in a horrible, armor-wrapped puddle of jellied innards once he hit the sidewalk. He preferred being drunk. He wasn’t ready to die.

And then his feet hit something or something hit his feet, and he jerked away instinctively with a shout. His audio pickups were still full of static, but he heard a familiar voice shouting what sounded like curses at him.

“Falcon?” he thundered, forgetting about his external speakers.

“Stop kicking!” Sam shouted right into the back of his helmet.

Strong arms wrapped around his legs just as his other hand gave way. For one sickening instant, he felt a lurch. The world spun crazily, giving him a great view of emergency lights far, far below, like little red and blue ants.

But there was no fire. No explosion from the crashing quinjet. Not that he was about to tell Sam to go after it.

Metal folded, pressing in around his left ankle, then his right. “Got him? Got him?” Sam was shouting, and someone else grunted out, “Yeah,” and Winter shouted, “Now!”

The world shook again, and Tony slammed faceplate-first into the landing pad, precious centimeters from the edge, safe and sound. Black boots, right there. Hands on him, helping him sit upright, which was probably a mistake. He wasn’t particularly acrophobic but near-death combined with lots of alcohol left him queasy, to say the least.

And then the helping hands were gone, and Winter barked, “Stand down!”

 _I’m not standing_ up _yet,_ Tony thought crazily, looking around as much as his damaged armor would allow.

Winter had his rifle leveled at — at _Sam_. What the fuck? And Sam was slowly raising his hands, still holding onto his twin machine pistols, though his fingers pinched the grips well away from the triggers.

“Okay, okay,” Sam said calmly. “Last I heard, he was a traitor.”

Tony turned the other way and saw Steve had come up beside Winter. His pistol was holstered, but that shield on his arm was every bit as dangerous as Winter’s rifle.

“Is this the time?” Tony asked, only then realizing that he was being the voice of reason. Pepper would be so proud, as long as no one told her about the near-death thing.

“He’s with me,” Winter said, deliberately sidestepping to put himself in front of Steve.

Tony could practically see Sam’s thoughts. Skepticism. Disbelief. The temptation to object. The realization that objecting would probably be fatal.

“Okay,” Sam repeated, lowering his hands slowly, weapons aimed for his holsters. Then he drew his hands back, fingers spread, and gestured back into the hangar. “Are we secure?”

“Everyone on this level is dead,” Winter confirmed, raising the rifle to point somewhat safely at the sky.

“Bruce —” Tony had to manually push his faceplate out of the way in order to be heard. “Bruce went to check on the cops downstairs. JARVIS said he was causing trouble of the structural kind.”

Winter nodded and handed the rifle to Steve in a clear statement of trust. Then he reached out with his metal arm and hauled Tony to his feet. “I need you to get the building’s systems back online. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely. I’m even mostly sober,” Tony said confidently.

“Mostly?” Steve asked.

Winter just sighed and said, “Go. Sam, perimeter.”

“Wait, no,” Tony said, turning to Sam. “Go look for that quinjet that got away.”

Sam wasn’t foolish enough to take orders from a civilian when they contradicted the Winter Soldier. He waited for Winter’s nod before saying, “On it.” He turned and ran off the landing platform, wings snapping out to catch the air as he fell.

“Showoff,” Tony observed... to no one. When he looked back, he saw Winter and Steve were doing the staring-into-each-other’s-eyes thing, as if they were about three seconds from making out. Even Tony knew that now wasn’t the time, and he was an expert at bad timing.

“You okay to keep going?” Winter asked very softly.

Steve smiled wryly, and for the first time, Tony realized they _both_ looked like absolute shit. Not that it stopped Steve from saying, “I could do this all day.”

Winter’s soft, warm laugh was one Tony had never before heard — never even imagined. “Some things never change,” Winter said, taking back the rifle.

A _whump-whump-whump_ made them all turn. Winter’s rifle tracked a black helicopter that rose up over the edge of the landing pad while Steve covered them both. Tony went to raise his hands, only to remember almost every one of his systems was offline. Hiding behind the shield looked like a pretty good idea.

But then the chopper door opened, and Natasha called out, “Permission to land, Agent?”

“Wave her in,” Winter told Tony without changing the rifle’s aim. Probably worried someone had a gun to the back of Natasha’s head, not that _that_ would ever happen.

Tony beckoned, and Natasha expertly spun the chopper to touch down in the middle of the landing pad, well away from the edge, which proved she was the smartest agent out of all of them. Winter and Steve headed her way, with Tony clanking behind them.

She hopped out lightly, then turned to open the back door so she could reach inside. She hauled out a body — gray suit, silvery white hair.

“Oh, fuck,” Tony said as the body hit the landing pad with a groan, nicely illuminated by the chopper’s running lights.

Winter had been tracking the body with his rifle. Now, he twitched the rifle up, not quite aiming at Natasha, and asked, “Widow?”

“Look who I found taking charge of the situation on the ground, pulling all the police out of the building,” she said dryly. “He claimed the power failure was Tony’s fault, and that it set off an ‘incident’ with Dr. Banner. He sent in two strike teams armed with assault weapons and shock rifles to ‘subdue’ him.”

“Rumlow had one of those rifles,” Steve said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “Who is that bastard?”

“Director Pierce of the World Security Council,” Winter said, rifle aimed firmly down at Natasha’s prisoner. “My commanding officer.”


	27. Chapter 27

The door to Steve’s hospital room opened after a single knock. A wave of gut-churning antiseptic smell came in, along with a man in a suit. Receding hairline, glasses, a neat charcoal suit... He was so ordinary, every one of Steve’s combat instincts flared to life.

Steve rose from the side of the patient bed where he’d been sitting and hitched up the loose hospital pants he’d been given. The linoleum was cold under his bare feet.

When the man smiled, twenty years dropped off him, leaving him almost a starry-eyed kid. “Captain Rogers?”

Steve’s answering smile vanished. That name was dangerous. Pre-Unification. “I, uh, think —”

“Sorry. _Agent_ Rogers,” the man said, letting the exam room door swing closed. “Phil Coulson, World Security Council, Avengers Initiative liaison. It’s such an honor to meet you.” He took a step closer, extending his hand.

World Security Council. Just like that other one, Pierce, who Natasha had arrested. The one who was Bucky’s medical proxy. Was he here to finish the job Rumlow had started?

The hospital was supposedly safe, but so was Avengers Tower. Or it had been, until the initial attack that had knocked out the electricity. But Bucky was right next door, and despite the night’s injuries, Steve was pretty damn confident he could hold Coulson off long enough to call for reinforcements.

“Mist—uh, Citizen Coulson,” Steve said, shaking Coulson’s hand.

“Agent, actually, but call me Phil. It’s such an honor,” Phil said, grinning even more now, still clinging to Steve’s hand. He couldn’t seem to decide what he wanted to look at more: Steve’s face or his chest. Both were dotted with stitches and bandages. “I studied your work during the war against the Axis — yours and the Howling Commandos.”

“You —” Steve shook his head, feeling lost all over again. No one else had even _heard_ of him, except for Rumlow. And, presumably, Pierce.

“I have a classified degree in Pre-U Political Science,” Phil said, ducking his head shyly. “I attended one of Founder Car—uh.” His smile vanished into a mask of horror, and he finally let go of Steve’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

 _Founder Carter_. Steve shook his head, thinking maybe he should sit back down. After the X-rays, the doctors had given him a shot of some pretty powerful painkillers that left him dizzy. “It’s — You knew Peggy?”

“She gave a few lectures,” Phil said gently. “Highly secret, invitation only. Amazing stuff. She spoke so highly of you.”

Steve took a deep breath and looked away, finally gesturing to the chair in the corner of the room. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” They both sat, and Phil said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to debrief you. Better to do it while the night’s events are still fresh.”

As if Steve was going to say _anything_ without Bucky present? He put a hand up to the bandages over his collarbone. “I’m a little tired —”

“It should only take a few minutes. I already spoke to Agent Winter.”

“I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

Instead of taking offense, Phil smiled. “No, you’re not. Considering what former Director Pierce allegedly did —”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Allegedly?”

Phil held up his hands. “We’re still sorting out the evidence. They’re calling an emergency WSC session tomorrow to open the investigation. Acting Director Fury has custody of Pierce.”

“And Rumlow? Brock Rumlow?”

Phil sighed. “The stolen quinjet crashed into Central Park, where it exploded. Witnesses report no survivors —”

“He’s survived one explosion already,” Steve warned.

“And we’re scouring the park’s security cameras, as well as any cameras that caught footage of the quinjet’s emergency descent, just in case he bailed out before the crash. If he’s out there, we’ll find him,” Phil said earnestly.

Having survived for seven months on the run with Rumlow, Steve had his doubts. “What did —”

The door opened, this time without a knock, and he got to his feet too quickly when Bucky walked in. “Hey, Coulson,” Bucky said with barely a nod, heading right to Steve. Bucky’s right arm was in a cast all the way up over his bicep, but that didn’t stop him from pulling Steve into a one-armed hug, avoiding Steve’s left side. His metal arm was cold as ice, making Steve shiver.

“You’re okay?” Steve whispered, not even caring that the painkillers weren’t enough to deal with the broken collarbone. “What’d the doctors say?”

Bucky shrugged, face buried against the side of Steve’s neck for a few precious seconds. “The usual.” He pulled back and touched Steve’s face right below a neat row of stitches. “The cast comes off in three days. My stitches should be healed by tomorrow. You?”

“Couple hours,” Steve said, grinning. “They’re already closing.”

“Showoff.” Bucky stepped back and looked at the bandage on Steve’s collarbone. “No cast?”

“The X-ray showed the bone starting to heal straight. As long as I don’t do anything stupid, it’ll be fine in a few days.”

“Shit. You’ll be in a cast within a week.”

Steve rolled his eyes, secretly loving the warmth of Bucky’s smile — and the fact that he _remembered_. “I can stay out of trouble!” he protested.

Bucky scoffed. “Yeah? Since when?”

Phil’s gentle cough interrupted Bucky, who looked back in surprise. “Sorry, Agents, but we really do need to finish this before any important details are forgotten.”

“His memory’s the same as mine. He won’t forget,” Bucky said. “Right now, I’m taking him home.”

“Isn’t the Tower damaged?” Steve asked.

“We’ve got a training compound up in the Catskills. Chopper’s waiting on the roof.”

Any impulse Steve had to follow procedure vanished under the force of Bucky’s grin. “Sorry, Agent Coulson. Some other time?”

Phil’s smile had an edge of resignation, and he pointedly got out of the way, clearing their path to the door. “Of course, Agents. Feel better.”

Bucky took Steve’s hand and led the way out into the hall, both of them half-dressed and barefoot. They slowed as a man in black body armor over civilian clothes got up from a bench. He was holding a cardboard box of coffee cups, and an armored vest hung open over a ratty white T-shirt. His blond hair was spiked in all directions as if he’d just gotten out of bed.

“We leaving already?” he asked, flicking a questioning glance Steve’s way before turning back to Winter.

Bucky let go of Steve so he could gesture at Steve. “Yeah. You’re driving,” he said, making a couple of quick gestures with his left hand. It was _almost_ familiar... Then he nodded at Steve, adding, “Clint Barton, Steve Rogers.” His fingers flashed in the fluorescent lights as he — Steve blinked — as he signed the letters of Steve’s name, or some of them, anyway. It wasn’t quite the signing Bucky and Steve had taught themselves one summer, back when it looked like Steve’s failing hearing might go completely, but it was close enough.

“Hey.” Clint offered a handshake, then a coffee cup, both of which Steve accepted. The caffeine would hopefully offset the painkillers. “I missed all the fun.”

“Fun?” Steve didn’t try to sign it — not with a busted collarbone and his faulty pre-serum memory — but he figured his _You’re crazy_ look was more than enough, judging by Clint’s bright grin.

“How’s Laura?” Bucky asked with a couple more quick signs.

“Happy to be back to work,” Clint answered, taking one of the coffee cups out of the box. He held it out to Phil, who was standing nearby.

Phil sighed and took the coffee. “That’s why you were late? Coffee?” he asked without signing, though Steve heard a faint echo of his words coming from somewhere around Clint’s ears. Was he using an earwig to boost his hearing, while Phil had a mic somewhere under his suit? That would’ve been useful, back in the day.

Clint scoffed. “You love me.”

“I _love_ Laura. You rank somewhere behind Lucky.”

“But I don’t shed! That gets me points.”

Struggling not to laugh, Bucky took one of the two remaining coffee cups and told Steve, “Lucky’s their dog.”

Steve wasn’t sure who was included in “their” implied relationship — all three of them, maybe — so he just grinned. “You’re a pilot, Clint?” he asked, hoping the mic would pick up his words.

Clint nodded. “Archer, sharpshooter, pilot.”

“Dog-walker,” Phil added. “Co-parent.”

“And team coffee acquisition specialist,” Bucky finished.

“See? Without me, you’d all be lost,” Clint declared, taking the last coffee cup out of the box. With a negligent flip of his wrist, he sent the cardboard box flying into a trash can with accuracy Steve couldn’t have matched with his shield. Smirking, Clint turned and promptly walked face-first into the stairwell door, completely missing the push-bar to open it.

Phil reached past Clint to push the door open, saying, “Agent Rogers... If you decide it’s too hazardous to be an Avenger, let me know. No reason you can’t form your own team.”

Steve heard the teasing in his voice but answered, “We started out together, me and Bucky. After all this time, it’s nice to get back to that.”

“Bucky?” Clint asked, frowning at Steve.

Bucky interrupted, “Later. We’ll explain everything at the compound, after we get some rest.” He looked over at Phil and asked, “Are you coming with us?”

With a disappointed sigh, Phil shook his head. “Acting Director Fury needs me here. But I do need to debrief you both — especially Agent Rogers.”

“Come up to the compound when you’re done,” Bucky said, and it must have been an unusual invitation, judging by how Phil’s eyes lit up. “We have a lot to go over. Plans to make.”

 

~~~

 

A soft bump pulled Steve out of sleep. He opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through the small helicopter window. Turning from the window, he saw Bucky, bruises fading from his face, hair tucked back behind his ear. Long eyelashes fluttered as Bucky opened his eyes, then smiled.

“Hey,” Steve said softly, smiling back.

“Hey yourself.” Bucky let out a grunt of protest as he shifted his right arm. His cast caught on the blanket draped over them both, tugging it off Steve’s chest. “We here yet?”

“Think so.” Steve’s collarbone twinged in protest when he pushed up so he could look out the window at more than the sky. The sun was high over a valley filled with rich green trees. “Forest?”

“Uh huh.” Bucky rolled onto his back, then hit the button to raise the back of his seat. Reluctantly, Steve followed suit, reminding himself that Bucky had mentioned rest, which implied beds that were more comfortable than reclining seats on a helicopter.

As Steve put up his own seat, he glanced back to see the rest of the team — Natasha, Sam, and Dr. Banner — _not_ looking at him and Bucky in a way that implied they’d previously been staring. _Shit_.

The cockpit door opened, and Clint walked into the passenger compartment. “We’re here, we didn’t crash, and I want a raise.”

“You can have pizza for lunch,” Bucky said, moving the blanket aside so he could stand. “What time is it?”

JARVIS answered from the ceiling, “Local time is one ten in the afternoon,  Agent.”

“Make it dinner, then. Seven o’clock,” Bucky said, looking around at the team. “Until then, comms blackout for anything under priority one. Steve?”

“Right.” Conscious of all the stares, Steve hurried after Bucky, who lowered the stairs and jogged down two steps at a time.

Outside, a path curved through the grass to a low building, all concrete and glass. Once again barefoot, Bucky and Steve cut across the grass to double doors that opened at their approach. Steve paid just enough attention to note exits and memorize escape routes on the way up to a third floor corner apartment that was nearly identical to the one back in the Tower, right down to the lack of interior walls.

“JARVIS, windows one hundred percent opaque. Stop all monitoring,” Bucky said, bolting the doors behind Steve. Then, without any warning, he said the words Steve had been dreading: “I know you lied.”


	28. Chapter 28

Steve swallowed, heart lodged in his throat. “Bucky —”

“Don’t,” Bucky interrupted, walking toward Steve. “I get it.”

“I didn’t —” Steve shook his head, studying Bucky’s face for any hint of the anger he had to be feeling. “At first, when you asked if we were partners, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what it meant. I thought... I just —”

“Wanted to stick with me?” Bucky asked, stopping just a few inches away.

Steve sighed and looked down, avoiding Bucky’s eyes. “Yeah. I thought you were dead. And then you weren’t, but you didn’t remember. Not anything.”

“Actually, I think I did,” Bucky said thoughtfully. “Somewhere inside, I _knew_ you. Trusted you. I still do.”

“Huh?”

Bucky let out an exasperated breath and touched his fingers to Steve’s chest, over his heart. The metal had cooled in the walk from the helicopter to the apartment, and Steve had to suppress a shiver. “You weren’t unhappy when you figured out that ‘partnership’ is the same thing as ‘marriage.’”

Steve flinched. “Bucky...”

“Stupid.” Bucky took the last step, closing the space between them, and slid his hand up to Steve’s face. Softly, he asked, “How long?”

 _He doesn’t hate me_. Steve had known it somewhere inside, but he hadn’t been certain. “Before the war,” he whispered. “But you always had a girl on your arm, and then I met Peggy...”

“And then, I was gone.” Bucky wrapped his hand around Steve’s nape and gently pulled until their foreheads touched. His metal hand was strong but held Steve gently, protectively. It felt more intimate than any kiss could be.

“Yeah.” Steve’s laugh was rough. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have told you sooner.”

“And then what? You were right. I _wasn’t_ myself. I would have —” Bucky tensed, taking a deep breath. “All I knew was you’d fought to bring Unity down. As it was, the whole team was questioning my decision to take you in alive.”

“They’re still wondering,” Steve admitted. “You’ve got to tell them something.”

Bucky nodded. “Everything. They deserve to know it all.”

Steve let out a sigh and went to sit down on the couch. Bucky followed, nudging Steve over so they could sit without the cast between them. Steve looked over at Bucky, saying, “They’re loyal to you. They’ll never accept me. Not after I lied about us.”

Deliberately, Bucky took hold of Steve’s hand. “Remember right before cryo, when I was in the treatment chair, when I asked you to kiss me?”

Heat rushed into Steve’s face. “You didn’t —”

Bucky smiled and squeezed his hand. “Shut up, Steve. Think about your answer. How you didn’t want to do anything until I knew you. Until I _remembered_ you.”

“Well... yeah,” Steve said softly.

Bucky nodded encouragingly. “So yeah, you lied, but I’d say you had a damn good reason. And you didn’t take advantage of it. You did everything you could to bring _me_ back.”

Steve managed a faint smile. “I got arrested for it. Again.”

_“What?”_

So he didn’t know. He didn’t know what had happened almost a month ago — or where Steve had been for all that time. Leaning back into the couch cushions, Steve said, “Assault, interfering with a medical procedure, all that bullshit about your ‘free will’ — which it _wasn’t_.”

Bucky frowned, twisting sideways to face Steve. “Wait a minute. Start over.”

Steve hid a shiver at the memory of the terror in Bucky’s eyes. “Right before that ‘treatment’ started, do you remember what you said?”

Frowning even more, Bucky said, “I... asked you about cryo, right? Said something about how we could wake up together?”

“After that.” Steve turned, resting his knee against Bucky’s leg. “You said, ‘Sergeant Barnes. Three-two-five-five-seven.’ It’s what you were saying in Zola’s lab, remember? The HYDRA weapons factory in Kreischberg, Austria.”

“Shit,” Bucky whispered. “I don’t remember that. In the chair, I mean. Everything would just... go black as the machine engaged. It was peaceful.”

Heartbroken, Steve was tempted to let Bucky believe that, but he needed to know the truth. No more lies. “Bucky... you were screaming. You were terrified. That’s why I broke the machine, but it was too late. You’d already passed out. Then they put you in cryo, and I got locked back up in your cell.”

Bucky sighed and let go of Steve’s hand to put an arm around his shoulders instead. “I don’t remember. It’s got to be some... I don’t know. Some remnant programming or something.”

Steve leaned into Bucky’s body, almost wishing he were his old self again, small enough to tuck under Bucky’s arm so he could feel safe and protected. “Whatever it was, you weren’t in there long enough to forget me again.”

“And I’m not going back in.” Bucky moved his other hand so his fingers touched Steve’s knee, scorching hot through the thin fabric of the hospital pants Steve still wore. “Never again.”

“But your medical proxy,” Steve said worriedly. “It’s still that Pierce guy, isn’t it? If he’s got something to do with Rumlow and the others... you were their number one target.”

“Sure, jump ahead of me, why don’t you?” Bucky laughed softly. “I needed a medical proxy because I don’t have any known next-of-kin. Or a registered partner.”

Steve frowned. “But —”

“Yet.”

Steve’s heart skipped a beat. “Yet?”

“Just think about it.” Bucky got to his feet, holding out his left hand to pull Steve up with him. “Do you want to stay here or should we find you your own quarters?”

“I’ll —” Steve shook his head. “Did you just propose to me?”

Instead of coming up with a complicated explanation, Bucky nodded. “Yeah.”

Steve stared at Bucky, trying to figure out what he was thinking. “This is just... out of nowhere.”

“Is it?” Bucky asked, giving Steve a faint smile that faded almost immediately. “Or is it too soon, after finding out about — about Peggy?”

“It’s about _us_ ,” Steve insisted, raking a hand through his hair. “Do you want me? Do you _love_ me?”

Bucky sighed, catching Steve’s hand so he could lock their fingers together. “Somewhere inside, I never _stopped_ loving you. It’s not about sex. It’s about us.”

_It’s about us._

The words lodged in Steve’s chest, and he clenched his hand around Bucky’s, pulling him close. The cast, trapped between their bodies, scratched at his ribs, and his healing collarbone burst into new pain, but he didn’t care.

He buried his face in Bucky’s long hair, whispering, “I love Peggy. I’ll always love her. But you... I’ve loved you as long as I can remember. I just didn’t think...”

Bucky laughed quietly, metal arm pressed against Steve’s shoulders, holding Steve close. “That’s always been your problem. You don’t think.”

Steve huffed out a short laugh. “Like you’re any better?”

“I learned from the best.” Bucky stepped back a couple of inches, enough to look into Steve’s eyes. “If the sex is that important, we can have an open partnership.”

That part of Steve that would always be small and sickly and invisible flinched. Did that mean Bucky _didn’t_ want him?

Then he mentally kicked himself. It didn’t matter. “No. It’s — it’s fine,” he said, hating how quiet it came out. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Bucky’s eyes. “Whatever you want.”

“Steve...” Bucky shook his head, touching Steve’s face. “Other than a couple of doctors, you’re the only person I’ve let touch me since the war. This” — he brushed cool fingertips over Steve’s skin — “is already a lot for me.”

 _Shit_. Steve caught Bucky’s hand in both of his. “I’m sorry. God, Bucky...”

“Hey. It’s all right,” Bucky said gently. “Let’s just go slowly, okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.” Steve took a deep breath and touched Bucky’s cast. “Are you feeling better? Do you need to rest?”

“After a shower.” Bucky raised his voice, saying, “JARVIS, I need something to cover my cast. Something waterproof.”

“I’ll have something delivered shortly, Agent Winter.”

“Barnes.” Bucky met Steve’s eyes and said, “It’s Agent Barnes.”

Without missing a beat, Jarvis said, “I have noted the change, Agent Barnes. Shall I inform the others?”

“Not just yet, JARVIS. Let’s keep it a surprise. For now, set an alarm for six thirty and stop all monitoring.” Bucky smiled his old, lopsided smile, breaking Steve’s heart and healing it all at once. “You want to join me in the shower?”

The last twenty-four hours had been a worse roller coaster ride than the Cyclone. Steve glanced over at the corner of the open apartment where showerheads were mounted over a gently sloped tile floor dotted with small drains. Even if Steve didn’t say yes, Bucky would have no privacy.

And Bucky wouldn’t have asked if he didn’t want Steve to say yes. Bucky wanted to have that intimacy with him, and that was a thousand times more important — more significant — than sex.

“Sure,” Steve croaked, then coughed. “Okay.”

Bucky’s smile softened, and he brushed his fingers over Steve’s beard. “And we should do something about this. Unless you want to keep it?”

“I would’ve shaved it weeks ago, only you didn’t have a mirror.”

Bucky frowned, smile fading for a moment. “Yeah,” he said softly, thoughtfully. “I couldn’t look in the mirror without dissonance. What I saw didn’t match what was in my head.”

A twinge of nervousness made Steve shiver. What if Bucky _wasn’t_ entirely back? He did keep slipping back into “Winter Soldier” mode, but that had been with the team — people who expected him to act that way.

Talking about the past had helped bring Bucky back, so Steve said, “You always had your hair short. You combed it back out of your face. And you always dressed so carefully in the best clothes you could afford.”

Bucky moved his hand to touch his own hair, eyes distant. “I remember,” he said quietly, strands tangling around the metal plates over his fingers. He blinked and looked at Steve, saying, “A couple of times, you cut my hair, didn’t you?”

Steve’s breath caught. “During the war, yeah. We all kept getting in trouble with the brass. Not one of the Commandos could keep to any kind of uniform regs.”

Bucky laughed. “I had that blue cold weather jacket. I loved that thing.”

Grinning right back at him, Steve said, “ _Completely_ against regulations, not that I could stop any of you. All I could do was arrange haircuts and hot showers.”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully. “Hey, JARVIS.”

“Yes, Agent Barnes?” JARVIS asked, and the name made them both smile.

“We need stuff for a haircut. Scissors, combs, whatever. And a mirror.”

“Protocol WS-004 —”

“Override,” Bucky said firmly. “We’ll revise the rest of the protocols later. A lot of things are going to be changing around here.”

 

~~~

 

 _This is nothing new,_ Steve told himself, taking off his clothes with more care than his healing collarbone warranted. He’d undressed around Bucky more times than he could count, from childhood trips to the beach to living rough in war-torn Europe. Back then, there hadn’t been a hint of sexual interest between them, and Bucky had made it clear that his feelings on the matter, at least, hadn’t changed.

Wasn’t that a reversal? Bucky had rarely ended a date without a kiss from his latest girl. More, probably. Steve had been interested, but until Peggy, he’d gone his whole life without even a single kiss. And now, Steve couldn’t think of anything _but_ touching and kissing and then some — and all of it with Bucky.

But that wasn’t going to happen, which was fine. No reason to be nervous. Steve would just treat this like the old days. So he left his clothes on the floor with Bucky’s, then joined Bucky in the tiled corner of the apartment.

“Need help with that?” Steve asked, resting his eyes safely on Bucky’s cast, which Bucky was covering with a blue plastic sleeve.

“Yeah, thanks.” Bucky held out his arm for Steve. “Just pull it up to bare skin, then smooth it down so it makes a flat seal.”

Gently, Steve tugged at the top of the sleeve, easing it over the rest of the cast. “This happen often? Broken bones?”

“Less often these days. Things got rough in —” Bucky tipped his head, then laughed softly. “You know, I remember what _we_ called all the old countries, and how all the names changed over the years, but it’s just as instinctive for me to call places by their Unity designations.”

Steve shrugged, trying not to paw at Bucky’s skin as he smoothed the plastic in place. “I wouldn’t know those. I haven’t even seen a map.”

Bucky shot him a surprised look. “Really? It’s not exactly classified.”

Steve laughed softly and stepped back, forcing his eyes up to Bucky’s face. “Every day, I’m finding more things Rumlow _didn’t_ tell me. No history, geography, politics... It was all combat tactics and technology, on a tablet his people scrubbed. And in every safehouse, that” — he gestured over at what he now knew was a television mounted on the far wall — “had been removed.”

“He didn’t want you seeing anything that would make you question your loyalty to him.” Bucky sighed and headed for the shower area. The water came on automatically, filling the corner with steam. “We’ll make that clear to the others, though I can’t see them protesting. You’re probably the only reason any of us are even alive.”

Steve’s shiver drove him into the warmth of the shower — at least, that was what he told himself. He kept six inches between himself and Bucky, standing under the broad showerhead that simulated falling rain. “Actually, it was JARVIS.”

“Huh?”

Steve glanced at the ceiling. “JARVIS, stop monitoring.”

Bucky threw a smile over one shoulder before turning back into the spray. “He’s activated by context. Just saying his name won’t be enough unless it’s followed by a command or question. Anything else gets dumped right out of memory.” He put a hand under the shampoo dispenser, which whirred and dropped a puddle of shampoo into his palm.

“Good to know.” Steve tried not to stare while Bucky’s back was turned, but his eyes were drawn to the scarring where Bucky’s metal shoulder plates met bare skin. It was no surprise Bucky was a lot more muscular than he’d been even after whatever Zola had done to him. He needed to be strong to carry the weight of that arm.

Scrubbing shampoo into his still-too-long hair, Bucky asked, “You were saying? About JARVIS?”

“Right.” Steve shook his head and reached past Bucky, careful not to touch, for shampoo. “I, uh... I tried to get you out of that chair, but it was too late. I guess they thought they had to put you into cryostasis to heal, so they locked me up. Again.”

Bucky turned, wiping bubbles out of his eyes to blink at Steve. “The power outage from the EMP blasts. The cell’s systems were shielded.”

Steve nodded, forgetting about the shampoo dripping through his fingers. “JARVIS called me ‘Agent.’ I guess he was going off that programming. He figured he had a reason to let me go.”

“Glad he did.” Bucky ducked his head under the water and started rinsing out the shampoo.

“He, uh, originally wanted me to restore power.” Steve turned his back and rubbed what was left of the shampoo in his own hair. “Someone had already done that, though. I think it was Rumlow’s troops, though I don’t know why.”

“The power junction should be in a secure vault. How’d they get in?”

“Blew a hole through the window to that floor. Maybe got in with a parachute, though” — Steve shook his head — “that’s not a jump _I_ would have wanted to make.”

“Huh... Are you sure it was them? That sounds like Tony.”

“Tony?” Steve thought back to the Tower fight, when he and Bucky had finally made it to the hangar level. He’d seen a red and gold robot flying around, and he’d seen Tony walking around in red and gold body armor, but he hadn’t put two and two together. “Wait, that thing’s got actual flight? It doesn’t just hover over the floor?”

Bucky’s rich laugh echoed off the tile walls. “He’d never settle for just hovering. His suits are fully weaponized and pressurized for underwater and high-atmospheric flight. Like out of the old scientifiction magazines we used to read.”

Every time Steve thought he was getting used to the technology in this modern world, something shocked him all over again. “Now I’m curious to know what else he can do.”

Bucky laughed. “Don’t ask him to show off. He will. For _days_.”

Steve grinned and tipped his head back to rinse his hair. “Sounds like Howard.”

“I remember that.” Bucky groaned, scrubbing at his face, muffling his words. “They really are _exactly alike_. Right down to shit just randomly exploding around them.”

“Oh, God. Remember when we captured that super-heavy tank and brought it to him?”

Bucky barked out a laugh and turned, pointing at Steve in warning. “If you _ever_ try that with Tony...”

“He’s got _flying suits!_ ” Steve protested. “How much worse can it get?”

“Don’t ask him that, either. Trust me.”

Steve shook his head and reached for the soap dispenser, though he hesitated. “Wait... Is that a new thing for Tony? The flying armored suit?”

Bucky hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe... five, six years? He was captured by insurgents who wanted him to build them weapons, only he built his first suit instead.”

“So it’s not new... Why wouldn’t he have told me that?”

“Who? Tony? I don’t think he likes you.”

Steve huffed. “I meant Rumlow. He wanted to use me against you — against all of you. So why wouldn’t he give me a full briefing on your team’s capabilities?”

Bucky turned to face him, brushing wet hair back out of his face. “What _did_ he tell you?”

Steve shook his head, frowning, thinking back to the first time he’d seen Bucky in this new world. “It was Unification Day. There was a broadcast of the celebration. He said... He said you were Pierce’s bodyguard. That you’d only showed up a couple years ago. That’s why I was so surprised when you said you had publicists.”

“The whole team does,” Bucky said with a shrug. “Tony’s got an entire division of Stark Industries making action figures and stuffed toys. I think that’s half the reason he keeps making new suits — so he can release more collector’s edition figures.”

“It must have been you,” Steve guessed, looking at Bucky’s arm. His very distinctive, very recognizable metal arm. “He couldn’t tell me about the team, because then I would’ve asked about the team leader, and I might’ve figured out who you are. He must have known I would never have fought against you, no matter what. Even if you were part of the old HYDRA.”

“Now you’re lying to yourself,” Bucky said, turning back to his shower.

Steve went for the soap again, this time actually getting some. “I still don’t understand... Why HYDRA? They were — You _remember_ HYDRA, don’t you?”

“Some, yeah. There are still some holes...” Bucky shrugged, glancing at Steve. “Can you get my back?”

Steve nearly lost the thread of the conversation. He nodded, rubbing the soap between his hands. “They — Peggy and Howard — they were so _against_ HYDRA,” he said nonsensically, trying to focus on the mechanics of applying soap to skin rather than feeling muscles and heat and _Bucky_.

“I remember Howard tried explaining it once, early on, but...” Bucky shook his head, then arched his back, pressing into Steve’s hands with a quiet groan.

“Is this — I’m not... hurting you? Your shoulder?” Steve asked, wanting to press harder to get Bucky to groan again.

Bucky laughed softly. “You can stop that in about twenty years. Do you have any _idea_ how long it’s been since someone’s even touched me?”

“Yeah. You said.” Steve dug in with his fingers, heartbroken all over again at the decades of isolation Bucky had endured.

“I think...” Bucky sighed, bracing his metal arm against the tile. “It’s like I remember _wanting_ to let people get close, but I couldn’t. Leftover programming or something.”

“The same programming that made you go back to that chair-machine?” Steve guessed, keeping his voice soft despite the grim subject.

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. You know, that programming would still be there, if not for you.” He turned enough to meet Steve’s eyes. “Thanks.”

Steve stepped closer, forgetting his resolve to give Bucky his space, though he caught himself before he could pull Bucky into his arms. “I knew I’d find a way. Even if I had to kidnap you and get you away from all those doctors who weren’t helping worth a damn...”

Laughing, Bucky turned and rested his hands on Steve’s hips. His metal fingers were cool from the tile and the edge of the plastic sleeve was sharp, but Steve didn’t flinch. He barely even noticed.

“Rumlow took a hell of a risk,” Bucky said, holding Steve in place, keeping him from backing politely away. “Everything he did was to get you close enough to take me out, and it still failed.”

“We’ll get him,” Steve promised, taking hold of Bucky’s face. The long hair and the beard were wrong, but he didn’t care. “Can I...”

After a few seconds, Bucky tipped his head. “Can you what?”

Swallowing, Steve asked, “Can I kiss you? I don’t want to push.”

Bucky smiled, sliding his metal hand to the small of Steve’s back. “Yeah.”

Steve leaned in, brushing his lips against Bucky’s — a soft, slow press that he savored without demanding more. This was about intimacy, not sex. God, he really did love Bucky. To have him after all these years — after all that could have come between them — was everything Steve wanted. And when his body responded without conscious control, he stepped back a couple of inches, wanting Bucky to feel only love, not pressure to do anything more.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” Steve whispered, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s scruffy cheek. Then he let go, giving Bucky his space, and reached for the soap again. “Turn around. Let me finish washing your back. The sooner we’re done here, the sooner I can cut your hair.”

 

~~~

 

Bucky hadn’t been kidding when he said it had been decades since he’d deliberately looked at his own reflection. Before Steve, just a glimpse of his own face had been enough to scramble his thoughts. And even now, with his hair cut short and ruffled up in damp spikes, his stomach churned and his heart raced.

 _Seventy years_. He took a deep breath, looking into blue eyes that had become unfamiliar. For seventy years, he’d been denied himself, until Steve had come back to him.

He lowered the mirror and met Steve’s eyes. They were a different shade of blue than his own. Deeper. Warmer.

“Is it okay?” Steve asked nervously.

Bucky glanced back down into the mirror, only then realizing what was wrong. “Give me ten minutes to shave, and it’ll be perfect,” he said with a smile. “Or did you want to go first? You used to shave every morning, even in the field, right?”

Steve’s embarrassed laugh was adorable. “Hey, one of us had to be respectable.”

“Then you go first.” Bucky slid down from the counter he’d used as a seat and pressed the mirror into Steve’s hands. All of Bucky’s — _Winter’s_ — apartments were the same, which meant... _Aha_. All the way in the back of the cabinet under the sink, he had a set of clippers. He dug it out, uncoiled the power cord, and plugged it in. “Start with these.”

“Thanks.” Steve braced the mirror behind the sink and leaned down with a wince.

“I’ll get a mirror installed later or tomorrow,” Bucky promised, tossing a dry towel over his head before remembering that shorter hair would dry faster. “My publicists are going to kill us both, you know.”

Steve laughed. “Your publicists. I’m never going to get used to that.”

Bucky poked Steve’s hip. “Hey, be glad. They’re the ones who’ll help explain you and me to the world.”

“Shit.” Steve turned off the clippers and glanced at Bucky. “How? I mean, the whole ‘Captain America’ thing is the opposite of good publicity now, isn’t it? Considering we used to fight _against_ HYDRA...”

“Yeah...” Bucky scratched at his arm above the cast, where his skin was still imprinted with marks from the waterproof cover. “Agent Coulson might have some ideas. He knows more about Unity’s early days than anyone else.”

Steve got that shy, embarrassed smile again and went back to shaving off the beard. “He called me ‘Captain Rogers.’ He, uh, seemed to be a fan.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s probably got archive pictures of the old uniform, you know. In case you want to recreate it.”

“Oh my God,” Steve said with a groan, ducking his head when Bucky started to laugh. “I’m never going to escape those damn tights, am I?”

“I liked that uniform,” Bucky teased.

Steve paused shaving long enough to shoot Bucky a sidelong look. “We’ll _discuss_ new uniforms for us both. You’re too grim in all black. It’s not you.”

“Yeah.” Bucky looked down at himself, at the metal plates making up one arm, the blue fiberglass cast on the other. He couldn’t picture himself in his old dress uniform from the war, but the black body armor wasn’t right either. “Maybe Agent Coulson’s got a picture of me in that old coat. Think that would work?”

Steve lowered the clippers so he could smile at Bucky. “That’d be...” He blinked and turned back to the mirror, eyes shining. “I’d like that.”

Bucky touched Steve’s shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin, the beating of his heart. “Hey, Steve?”

After another blink, Steve looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“I do love you.”

Steve smiled, and this time he didn’t try to hide his tears. “I love you, too, Buck. Always have.”


	29. Chapter 29

Steve couldn’t remember the last time he’d awakened to peace. No nightmares. No jolt of adrenaline. Only the faintest aches, easily ignored, except for his right ear. What was he using for a pillow? A rock? He reached up to adjust it, and his fingers slid over body-warm metal.

 _Right_. Not a pillow. And definitely not something to avoid. He laid his head back down, opening his eyes, then smiled when he saw Bucky — _his_ Bucky, clean-shaven, hair short and spiked up from sleep.

“It’s almost time to get up,” Bucky said, though he stayed right where he was, flat on his back with Steve held close to his left side.

“I’d ask if we really have to, but I’d really like breakfast or dinner. Whatever. My internal clock’s all messed up,” Steve admitted, wrapping his arm around Bucky’s chest. It was wrong that he couldn’t identify all the scars he felt under his fingertips — a reminder of the decades they’d lost.

“There’ll be food.” Bucky gestured toward the door with his other arm. “Clint wanted pizza, I think?”

Steve grinned. “You said pizza was his pay raise.”

Bucky shrugged, running his fingers up and down Steve’s back. “He loves pizza. It’s fine.” He turned, hair rustling against his pillow, and pressed a kiss to the top of Steve’s head. “You don’t have to talk to the rest of the team yet. Not until you’re ready.”

Steve closed his eyes, reminding himself he had no reason to be nervous. They were all loyal to Bucky. They _liked_ him. That was more than enough common ground. “I’m ready. You’re just comfortable.”

Bucky’s snort ruffled Steve’s hair. “As soon as I get this cast off, you’re switching to the other side. Metal is _not_ a good pillow.”

“Yeah, but you’re worth it.” Steve pushed up onto his elbow, not only to give his ear a break but so he could smile down at Bucky. “You sure _you’re_ ready for this? It’s a big change, you going from being the Winter Soldier to Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky slid his hand up Steve’s arm. “I’m still the Winter Soldier.”

Steve frowned, going cold inside. “You’re Bucky,” he said, a slight tremor in his voice. “James Buchanan —”

“I know,” Bucky interrupted, squeezing Steve’s shoulder. “I didn’t forget, Steve. It’s just... It’s not like the last seventy years didn’t happen.”

Steve’s worry disappeared under a wave of guilt. He touched Bucky’s face, saying, “I’m sorry. I’m not looking to change you.”

“I know,” Bucky repeated. He sat up a little stiffly, arching his back, rolling his shoulders. “I’m just saying, I’m not _only_ the person you knew. I’m still... loyal to Unity. To HYDRA — which, yeah, is a little crazy, with all these new memories,” he added with a wry smile.

 _Thank God it’s not just me_. Steve shifted to sit cross-legged next to Bucky, tugging the blankets up over his lap when he remembered they’d gone to bed without any pajamas. “From everything I’ve seen, Unity’s not so bad, but you’re never going to get me to say, ‘Hail...’ you know.”

Bucky frowned, then shook his head, saying, “No, no. Nobody says that.” He shook his head again, not quite hiding a shiver. “Yeah, that’s a whole new kind of dissonance,” he muttered.

“Why?” Steve asked. “Why did Howard and Peggy join HYDRA?”

“I don’t...” Bucky glanced away, eyes going distant. “I don’t know. After Howard first found me, I wasn’t... I wasn’t in any shape to really understand more than simple orders. But it’s not the _same_ HYDRA. It’s the opposite of everything HYDRA used to be. I mean, the Unification War got ugly, but nothing like _our_ war. And look at the world now. People everywhere have universal rights. It’s... it’s _peaceful_. It’s not perfect —”

Struck by the belief in Bucky’s voice, Steve interrupted, “Hey, you don’t have to sell me on it. You believe in it. That’s enough for me.”

Bucky sighed, relieved. “And the team,” he said, giving Steve a faint smile. “They’re like the Howling Commandos, only with better kit.”

“And better manners,” Steve guessed.

“Yeah, right.” Bucky scoffed, shoving the blankets out of the way so he could kick his legs over the edge of the bed. “Come on. Ten minutes with Clint and Tony will prove just how alike our teams are.”

 

~~~

 

Tony was the first one to the lounge, where he headed straight to the bar. First to arrive got to set the tone for the evening. House rules, at least for tonight. And tonight _definitely_ needed alcohol, possibly more than they had on hand. Unlike Avengers Tower, the compound was for training, not partying.

But he could fake it. “JARVIS, get us some music,” he said, just to start the evening off right. Nothing behind the bar would affect Winter — and presumably his boyfriend — but everyone else deserved Tony’s finest hospitality, after the last fifteen or twenty hours.

They also deserved answers, but Tony would let someone else make that demand. And that was assuming Winter didn’t shoot them all and arrange for their bodies to disappear in retribution for locking up Rogers for the last month.

The others trickled in over the next hour or so. Sam wandered over to the windows, occupied with a phone call. A surreptitious check — JARVIS monitored _everything_ , after all — showed he was talking to his family down in New Orleans. _Aww_. Tony brought him a beer, then intercepted Clint on the way to the bar.

“In case I didn’t say it, congratulations,” Tony said, getting Clint a beer, too. He and Sam were easy guests for anyone but Tony, who stocked strictly top shelf and had to special order their beer from the grocer’s in the nearest town.

Clint got that silly grin of his, the one that made him look even more harmless than Lucky. Enemies were _still_ underestimating him, even years after he’d joined the team. “Thanks. Laura and Phil loved the present you sent.”

“Great! Fantastic!” Tony said, lifting his glass with one hand while activating a holo keypad with the other. Pepper must have sent the family a gift when their latest kid — number two or three? — had been born, but _what?_

A few quick keystrokes, and he had the answer: a walker-slash-activity center. Tony frowned at the unhelpful description and pulled up an image. Plastic seat with holes for legs, a flat table circling the whole thing with moving bits and pieces, and wheels on the bottom.

He scoffed at the primitive design. “JARVIS, new project. Repulsor-based holoprojection early development learning center.”

“Project initialization failed,” JARVIS answered. “All technology for persons under the legal age of maturity must be approved by Citizen Potts.”

Tony frowned. “Since when?”

“Since the Stark Industries Children’s Line designed the HoverSuit for infants and toddlers.”

“The HoverSuit was brilliant,” Tony objected. “Little child-creatures can’t walk. The HoverSuit fixes that. Wasn’t it a bestseller?” He took a healthy drink.

“Citizen Potts halted production after the first ten prototypes. There were incidents with test dummies and ceilings.” JARVIS wasn’t programmed to sigh in exasperation, so he must have picked up the habit from one of the Avengers. They were all bad influences on him.

“You need a hobby,” Natasha said from across the bar, appearing out of nowhere.

Tony didn’t jump out of his skin, and the bar hid his flinch. “Drink?” he offered, and if his voice was a little too high, he could chalk it up to enthusiasm.

She nodded, then smiled, genuine and warm, when Sam walked over, phone back in his pocket. Turning on her barstool, she said, “Hey, Sam. How’s your back? Feeling better?”

“If I say no, do I get a backrub?” he hinted, stiffly sitting next to her.

She leaned in to kiss his cheek. “You get a personal recommendation to a very good physical therapist at HYDRA Regional Med.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Sam said, “Another beer please, Tony.”

Snickering to himself, Tony got Sam a beer, then set about making a martini. Bruce stopped in the kitchen for tea, then went right to Clint to ask for baby pictures.

“Am I late?” T’Challa asked in that pleasantly commanding voice of his. He was alone — no bodyguards, no entourage — so Tony waved him over with a friendly grin rather than giving a more formal greeting.

“Just in time,” Tony said. “Drink?”

“Perhaps after dinner. How is Winter?” he asked, taking a seat on Bruce’s other side.

Bruce shook his head, looking over at Tony, who emptied his glass and went for a refill. “Any idea?” Bruce asked.

“Nothing yet. I assume everything’s all right.” Tony busied himself stirring the martini, listening as Clint started showing off the baby pictures to everyone else. He finished with Natasha’s martini, then brought a glass of water to T’Challa. As he passed it over, he quietly said, “Winter’s been holed up in his apartment with Steve Rogers all day.”

T’Challa’s eyes widened. “Wasn’t Rogers” — he growled out the name — “in custody?”

Tony nearly slipped up and said JARVIS let Rogers out before realizing there was a risk of T’Challa launching a full-out assault on the local servers. It wouldn’t hurt JARVIS, but Tony had already lost enough tech in the last day.

“He and Rogers should be out in — JARVIS, time?”

“Current local time is six fifty, Citizen,” JARVIS answered.

“So ten, fifteen minutes. JARVIS, ETA on dinner?”

“Dinner has arrived and has been screened by security. You may proceed to the dining room at your leisure.”

Tony should have specified the much more comfortable great room (with its fully stocked bar) but he’d stayed awake just long enough to put in the catering order, then crashed to sleep off his hangover and injuries. They might as well play at being adults and eat in the dining room instead of on the couches.

“Okay. Dining room, everyone,” Tony announced, topping off his glass before heading that way.

He nearly ran down Rogers and some other guy. No visible weapons, short brown hair, jeans and a T-shirt, bruises and stitches all over his face. A cop who got caught in the Tower assault? Couldn’t be. JARVIS wouldn’t authorize anyone except the Avengers...

“Oh, fuck,” Tony whispered. “Winter?”

“Tony.” Winter actually _smiled_ , warm and charming, and walked over to where Tony was standing, staring like an idiot.

All his IQ points went to waste, in fact, because the only thing he could  do was repeat, “Winter?”

Winter’s smile turned into a grin. “You can still call me that if you want, but I’d prefer ‘Bucky.’”

“Bucky. Right. JARVIS —”

“I took care of that already,” Winter — _Bucky_ — interrupted, putting his metal hand on Tony’s shoulder.

Tony’s heart almost stopped. What had he done? What law or regulation had he broken? But instead of throwing Tony into the wall or snapping his neck, Bucky just gave a gentle squeeze, then let go with a pat.

“Dinner ready yet? We’re starving,” Bucky said, throwing that heartstopping grin Steve’s way.

Tony’s brain finally rebooted. “Yep. Right there. Dining room,” he said, pointing the way as if Bucky hadn’t approved every inch of the facility blueprints before they’d so much as laid the foundation.

“This way,” Bucky said, nudging Steve into moving. Their shoulders bumped as they walked, falling comfortably into step with each other, as if they’d been doing it for years.

 _They had,_ Tony realized. That really was Bucky Barnes, not the Winter Soldier.

Tony should’ve been pleased. The one thing he and his father had agreed on was that Bucky _needed_ to be healed — to have his memories fully restored. Tony had poured millions upon millions of credits into research in memory, neurology, and mind control, all for Bucky.

Now, he was back, not through science but through coincidence and dumb luck. Tony’s sole contribution had been to keep Steve out of WSC custody. All his genius and money and power hadn’t accomplished anything else.

Watching Winter — _Bucky_ — walk away, his oldest friend in the world at his side, felt like a loss all the same.

 

~~~

 

Steve’s stomach let out an embarrassing growl as soon as the smell of something rich and tangy wafted into the hallway. “You know,” he said, trying not to rush ahead, “it’d be nice if we could take a week’s vacation — regular meals, full night’s sleep, all that.”

“About a million years ago, I had plans to go scuba diving with Sam and Tony.” Bucky slung his arm around Steve’s waist. The metal was cool and hard, but it warmed Steve right to his toes. “We could give it another try, the four of us.”

Hiding a grin, Steve said, “Maybe first explain exactly what that is?”

Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, because you’ve never just rushed off into the unknown with untested kit,” he teased. “Self-contained breathing apparatus. It’s... an aqua-lung? Like the old open breathing circuits, with the tubes, only the oxygen’s carried in a tank on your back.”

Steve’s brows shot up. “I remember reading about stuff like that. Should’ve figured they’d improve the tech.”

“Yeah, just a bit. You’ll have to get certified to use it safely, but it’s pretty easy. Easier for us, though you’ll want to know how it works on unmodified humans, in case one of them gets in trouble.” He led Steve through an archway into a dining room with a long table with six chairs on either side but none at the head, where Steve would’ve expected Bucky to sit, as team leader. Instead, Bucky circled around to the other side of the table and took a corner seat, where his cast wouldn’t get in anyone’s way.

“Excuse me,” Tony said, slipping past Steve, who got out of the doorway. Tony sat down across from Bucky. A little lost, Steve went to sit down next to Bucky, feeling even more self-conscious when Tony shot him a puzzled frown.

Bucky must have noticed. He leaned close to Steve and quietly said, “Usually partners or lovers split up at the table, when we’re eating as a team. Go ahead and stay, though, for tonight.”

Steve didn’t want to sit apart from Bucky — not tonight, not ever — but he managed a smile. “Thanks. This is all still new.” He glanced at Bucky, thinking he’d never get his fill of staring, a visual reminder that Bucky was here. His.

Over the next few minutes, the rest of the team walked in, along with King T’Challa, though no one seemed to be treating him with any formality. Every time someone entered, there was a moment of hesitation when they spotted Bucky, short-haired and clean-shaven, though no one commented. They took seats at the end of the table near where Bucky had sat down in no order Steve could discern, except that Sam and Natasha ended up a couple of seats apart.

“Before we get started,” Bucky said once everyone was settled, “nothing substantial is going to change. We’re still a team. Okay?”

Sam’s sigh of relief was the only one Steve heard, though he spotted the way the others relaxed, as if they’d all been worried. Did they think Bucky wasn’t as dedicated to them as they were to him?

“There are also legal matters to be addressed,” T’Challa said, reaching for the basket of bread rolls. As if that were a signal, the others started serving themselves, but Steve hesitated, appetite turned to ash.

Bucky nodded, using tongs to pile deep-fried squiggles of _something_ onto his plate. “Yeah... We’ve got some lawyers who’ve helped us out a few times. We should probably see them,” he said, handing Steve the tongs.

“Thanks.” Steve served himself a small pile of whatever-they-were, then passed the tongs and platter to Clint, who’d sat down next to him. He wanted to ask about those “legal matters,” but later, when he and Bucky were alone. He’d already been arrested too many times by too many people in this room to chance it happening again.

“So, I remember everything,” Bucky said as he started piling barbecued meat — chicken, Steve suspected — onto a roll. “My name, my past... Steve,” he added with a smile.

“Your _relationship_ with him?” Natasha asked. The look in her eyes sent a chill down Steve’s spine.

Bucky sighed, moving his hand on top of Steve’s. “Everything. This ‘partnership’ thing...” He glanced at Steve. “It _started_ as a language problem. It’s not a problem anymore.”

Conscious of all the people staring their way, Steve explained, “‘Partners’ and ‘married’ were two different things, back where we came from. When, I mean.” He tried one of the curling things and found it was a sort of french fry, only about a hundred times better.

“But you lied,” Sam said, his voice flat.

Steve took a deep breath, pressing his leg against Bucky’s under the table. “Yeah. I mean, once I figured it out, I didn’t correct anyone. Clear things up.” He glanced at Bucky, who squeezed his hand. “I couldn’t risk losing him again. I needed” — he took a deep breath — “access. The whole medical proxy thing and all that...”

“And unless I’m remembering wrong,” Bucky said with a sweet little smile that made Steve’s breath catch, “we might have actually ended up as partners seventy years ago, if it’d been legal.”

Steve ducked his head and grinned. “Or even okay to talk about,” he admitted. “Besides, Bucky was a real hit with all the girls in the neighborhood.”

Bucky laughed. “And I always ended up coming back to you.”

For a few blissful seconds, Steve basked in the warmth of Bucky’s gaze, until Natasha drawled, “Aww.”

Steve jerked his hand away and sat back, face flaming. “Nat,” Bucky scolded, deliberately reclaiming Steve’s hand. He didn’t seem to notice the way everyone at the table was staring at him in wide-eyed shock.

Out of nowhere, Clint asked, “So does this mean Lucky can be the team mascot?”

 _“What?”_ Bucky asked, leaning forward to blink at Clint in absolute confusion.

With absolute innocence and conviction, Clint said, “It’s only fair. He’s been around longer than Steve.”

“Since when is Steve a mascot?” Bucky asked, trying — and failing — to hide a grin.

Clint took a bite of pizza and mumbled, “Look at him. He’s at least half golden retriever. Though, you know, not the killer biceps half.”

“Despite Clint not making sense,” Bruce interrupted, ignoring Clint’s protest, “he’s got a point.” He looked at Steve and asked, “Are you joining the team? You _are_ the original Project Rebirth, after all...”

“The one and only,” Tony said, smiling at Steve in a way that felt more like he was baring his teeth. But the look was there and gone in an instant, hidden behind Tony’s raised glass.

Had Steve imagined it? Maybe — or maybe not, judging by the slight narrowing of Natasha’s eyes as she studied Tony.

“Of course he’s joining the team,” Clint said, startling Steve out of his thoughts.

“Is that wise?” T’Challa asked, his expression pleasant and neutral. He raised his brows, looking curiously at Steve. “This world must still be unfamiliar to you. It would be unreasonable to expect you to fight for beliefs that aren’t your own.”

All eyes turned to Steve, and time slowed in a way that rarely happened outside combat. _This is a test,_ he thought, feeling Bucky’s hand go tight. He squeezed back, saying, “I barely know anything about this world.” He wanted to say something about trusting Bucky, but Bucky was also the Winter Soldier.

“Steve’s about the most opinionated person you’ll ever meet,” Bucky said, though his smile took the sting out of his words. “And _that’s_ why he’d be an asset to the team. If he thinks we’re on the wrong track, he won’t keep his mouth shut.”

“I thought that’s why we have Tony,” Natasha said dryly.

“Hey. Hey, no fair,” Tony protested, leaning forward to refill his glass. “Clint’s the one who can’t keep his mouth shut.”

“See?” Bucky asked, nudging Steve’s arm. “This is what I have to deal with. Help me out here. This is ten times worse than the Howling Commandos ever were.”

Steve grinned. “Maybe that’s because they put _you_ in charge.”

Bucky scoffed, eyes bright. “ _You’re_ the one who does stupid shit, Rogers.”

“Me? What’d I do?” Steve asked, his old Brooklyn accent showing.

Bucky started counting on his fingers. “Punched a tank. Blew up a tank while standing on it. Blew up a winery while standing _inside_ it. Jumped off the roof of a castle —”

“Let me guess,” Tony cut in dryly. “After blowing it up?”

“So, tactically, nothing’s changing,” Natasha said.

Bucky sighed theatrically and asked Steve, “See what I put up with?”

Steve grinned feeling the knots in his chest finally loosen up. These people weren’t the Howling Commandos, but they would’ve fit right in. “I don’t know, Buck,” he said mock-seriously. “Sounds like they know you pretty well.”


	30. Chapter 30

“Does this do anything for you?” Steve murmured, holding up the glass of scotch Tony had pressed into his hand right after giving Bucky one, too.

Bucky shook his head. “No. I usually don’t bother, but...” He shrugged, smiling fondly after Tony. “He _always_ offers. And it’s not just a formality — a ‘team leader’ sort of thing.”

“You like him,” Steve guessed, surprising himself that he felt no jealousy. These were Bucky’s Howling Commandos. They had just as much a place in Bucky’s heart as he himself did.

“Yeah. All of them.” Bucky grinned at the others sprawled around the living room. He moved the glass to his right hand, holding it awkwardly because of the cast, so he could put his other arm around Steve’s waist. Quietly, he said, “I hope you like them, too.”

After everything that had happened, Steve was more worried about _them_ liking _him_ , but there was no point in upsetting Bucky by saying it. Not when Bucky was relaxed and smiling and _himself_ again.

Instead, Steve said, “I’m sure I will,” and went to put his arm around Bucky, only to hesitate when he spotted T’Challa moving toward them. Apart from a couple of mild observations, the king had barely spoken at dinner, instead watching with sharp, knowing eyes. Steve’s stomach gave a nervous flip.

“Bucky,” T’Challa said, his smile so engaging, Steve couldn’t help but relax. “It’s good to see you enjoying yourself.”

“It’s good to be be _myself_ again.” Bucky took his arm from around Steve’s body so he could clasp T’Challa’s shoulder.

T’Challa’s eyes widened slightly, and Steve noted the barest hesitation before he put his hand on Bucky’s metal arm. “I must apologize to you both,” T’Challa said. “I am so very sorry. My scientists and I failed to understand what you, Steve, grasped immediately. Had we _listened_ , we might not have continued to make things worse for all these years.”

Bucky shook his head. “Hey, none of us knew. I mean, it was the opposite of what we all figured made sense. Even Howard never thought to _not_ do the — the treatment.”

The way Bucky’s voice had gone tight and quiet made Steve’s heart break all over again. Bad enough to be tortured all these years. To be mind-controlled into _asking_ for it?

“It won’t _ever_ happen again,” Steve promised, rubbing his hand over Bucky’s back. “I promise.”

“You have my word as well,” T’Challa said so sincerely, he endeared himself to Steve for life. “To that end, I would like you both to come to the Golden City at your convenience. I promise a festival in your honor, the likes of which you cannot begin to imagine.”

“And a visit with your neuro team?” Bucky asked wryly, though he was smiling.

T’Challa laughed, holding up his hands. “Only for Steve, and only if he agrees. There is still the question of your neurological decay,” he said delicately, nodding at Bucky. “If Steve is truly stable, we —”

“I am,” Steve interrupted, hooking his fingers through Bucky’s belt loop as if to hang onto him. “And whatever your doctors need, I’m in.”

“I’ll let you two work out the details. It’s all still a little too close for me,” Bucky said, leaning over to kiss Steve’s cheek before he excused himself.

Quietly, watching Bucky walk away, T’Challa said, “You’ve worked a miracle. This is the man he has always been, deep down inside.”

“Almost,” Steve said, taking a sip of the scotch. He suspected it was better than anything he’d ever tasted, but he didn’t have the experience to be sure. He’d never been able to afford the good stuff.

“I saw glimpses, you know. Hints of what lay beneath all the memory problems. The dissonance, as he called it.”

Steve sighed, watching as Bucky drew the others to him with familiar charm. “They’re both still there. Bucky and the Winter Soldier.”

T’Challa hummed thoughtfully, sipping his drink while he studied Steve’s face. “Does that upset you?”

“I wouldn’t try to change him,” Steve said uncertainly. “Who he is now... I’m still getting to know him in some ways, but he’s still...” He watched Bucky laughing with the others, eyes bright. Had he always been so beautiful?

“Howard would be pleased.”

Steve blinked at T’Challa. “Pleased?” he blurted. Despite the rumors about Howard’s broad tastes, he couldn’t imagine Howard would’ve wanted the super-soldier he’d created to end up in love with the one he’d taken under his wing.

“That you’ve helped Bucky where all others failed.” T’Challa’s smile slipped into a mischievous grin. “And that you’ve found love with one another. He was never meant to be alone.”

 _But he doesn’t want me,_ Steve thought, though he kept it to himself. It was awkward enough talking about his love life with a man who was a complete stranger — especially when that stranger was also a king.

“So I’ve, uh, never heard of Wakanda,” Steve said, trying to change the subject without offending T’Challa. “I still don’t really know how Unity works. Seems like there isn’t room for... royalty.”

“Ah. You’ve made a tactical error. My degree is in physics, but my second love is history. I could tell you stories all night,” T’Challa said slyly. He gestured to a group of armchairs by the window overlooking the forest, then started that way, Steve walking at his side. “More to the point, this is history I’ve lived. Ask what you will.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Steve admitted as they sat.

T’Challa nodded. “Wakanda, then. Few had heard of us, before my father, King T’Chaka, attended the Stark Expo in London shortly after the Founding. My father was studying at Oxford at the time. He was impressed by the passion and conviction the Founders shared, and he invited them to Wakanda, to discuss the future they envisioned.”

“Where is Wakanda?”

“East Africa. We had always been an isolated nation, but the promise of Unity was too great to ignore. We supported the Founders’ efforts wholeheartedly, supplying them with both military and medical technology as well as advisors, especially in territories newly brought into Unity.”

“But other... I don’t know what to call them. Nations? Territories? They don’t have kings,” Steve pointed out.

“Africa is a coalition in alliance with Unity, but not part of its government. That freedom was the price of our aid,” T’Challa explained, giving Steve a look that bordered on challenging. “Freedom for the nations of Africa. Our right to self-governance. An end to colonization by outsiders.”

 _Huh_. Steve nodded, saying, “The farthest south I’ve ever been is Italy. Or what _was_ Italy.”

“Even in this modern world, few outsiders are welcome within our borders. But since the time of my father’s reign, the Winter Soldier has been welcome to visit Wakanda in peace. When next he visits, you should join him.” T’Challa’s smile warmed. “For too many years, your Bucky has only known war. I would like to get to know the man behind the soldier.”

“Yeah,” Steve said, nodding before turning to look over at the others. These people might have been Bucky’s version of the Howling Commandos, brought together out of a subconscious desire to recreate a past buried deep inside Bucky’s memories, but none of them knew quite how to react to the man who was no longer entirely the Winter Soldier. The man who was no longer Steve’s Bucky, either. “I think we’d all like that.”

 

~~~

 

Winter was smiling and laughing — _laughing_ — and even four drinks couldn’t keep Tony from staring. Sure, the Winter Soldier had always been charismatic, but in the same way a velociraptor pack alpha was charismatic. It was easy to follow his lead, but he wasn’t exactly anyone’s first choice for a dinner guest.

And that thought made Tony queasy, thanks to the velociraptor analogy.

He refilled his glass, then turned away from the bar and all but jumped out of his skin. Winter — _Bucky!_ he reminded himself for the fiftieth time tonight — was right there, grinning at him. Tony fell back on old bad habits and picked up the bottle, offering, “Refill?”

There was something fond in Bucky’s smile as he held out his glass, though he still had a splash left on the bottom. Tony topped it off even though he knew the two super soldiers would be sober no matter how wild the party got. “Thanks,” Bucky said, raising the glass before taking a sip.

Tony followed suit, but the alcohol didn’t bring any new wisdom. It rarely did, not that he’d ever stop hoping. Plus JARVIS wasn’t programmed to yell at him for social drinking as long as there were people around and no one was naked. “So hey, speaking of JARVIS —”

“Were we?”

The teasing interruption nearly derailed Tony’s brain. He blinked a couple of times, then flashed the grin he used on reporters asking him baffling questions. “Yep. We need to go over security parameters, protocols, things like Rogers.” _Shit!_ Tony’s grin brightened a notch, a self-defense mechanism that he probably didn’t need with Bucky. “I mean, his status. And the whole complicit jailbreak thing.”

Bucky’s expression was all new, eyebrows raised but brow creased, as if he were torn between confusion and amusement — two states that were almost completely alien to the Winter Soldier. “Just how many of those have you had tonight?” he asked, pointing at Tony’s glass.

The reminder spurred Tony to take a healthy drink before Bucky could cut him off. “JARVIS let your pet felon out of the cell. I mean, yay JARVIS for stopping those assholes from taking over the Tower and killing everyone inside, but he still managed to break his programming. And I have no idea how.”

“Actually, I don’t think he did.” A new light came into Bucky’s eyes. “JARVIS’ core programming is to protect you, right?”

 _Fuck_. Tony’s grin faltered before he could hide it with another sip. “To protect the _Avengers_ ,” he said, and it was only sort of a lie. After all, _he_ was an Avenger. He was just one of the squishy non-super-soldier, non-assassin-trained, non-gamma-irradiated Avengers. He needed every edge he could get.

“Uh huh. And you, as one of the Avengers, are at the top of that list.”

“Well,” Tony drawled with a modest shrug. “You know, publicity —”

“So with all systems offline,” Bucky continued, “all JARVIS had left was Steve. Who I’m guessing was both in custody _and_ a probationary Avenger in JARVIS’ systems, right?”

Tony gave a slow nod. “Right.”

Bucky shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”

Tony blinked, trying to remember exactly what the problem had been thirty seconds ago. “Uh, nothing? No problem?”

“We have more problems?” Natasha asked from right behind Tony, giving him another jolt of adrenaline that he didn’t need, thanks very much. He licked spilled drops of scotch off his hand, which made his glare a lot less fierce, but there was no sense wasting good scotch.

“ _More_ problems?” Bucky asked, sounding much more like Winter. All business.

Natasha slipped between them so she could reach over the bar for a glass. She wasn’t usually a scotch drinker, but she poured herself one as she casually said, “JARVIS confirmed the timeline for Steve’s rescue. He’s missing twenty-one months between when they got him out of the ice and when _he_ thinks he woke up.”

“Damn.” Tony glanced over at where his dad’s favorite experiment was getting all buddy-buddy with T’Challa. _That_ was an unlikely friendship, given how Steve was almost a hundred years behind the times. Then again, T’Challa had always been a history buff, though he hadn’t let it distract him from getting a few degrees in physics and other actual sciences.

“Yeah, that’s more than enough time,” Bucky muttered, looking down into his glass. He swirled the contents with a sigh, then took a drink. “JARVIS, you with us, pal?”

That “pal” fried a couple more of Tony’s neurons, but JARVIS was unfazed, naturally. “Yes, Agent Barnes.”

“Access WS security and containment protocols.”

“Protocols accessed, Agent.”

“Edit target subject list. Add new subject: Agent Steven Grant Rogers, Avengers Initiative.”

“Target subject list updated,” JARVIS confirmed.

Bucky finished his drink and set the glass on the bar. “Standard containment protocols for all team members, too,” he said, looking at Tony and Natasha. “You may need to increase tranq dosages for him. His biological upgrades work a hell of a lot better than mine.”

“I’ll get to work on it with Bruce,” Natasha promised.

“As far as I know, Steve says he’s never experienced a neurological episode,” Tony felt obliged to point out. He didn’t exactly _like_ Steve Rogers — not after failing to live up to his memory, in Dad’s eyes — but it was clear that Steve was Bucky’s best shot at happiness.

“Which is why I also want T’Challa’s scientists working on him. Not just for containment, but maybe to keep _me_ stable.” The hint of hopefulness that crept into Bucky’s voice was just heartbreaking. Intellectually, Tony knew Winter’s “episodes” were stressful, but he’d never really imagined their emotional impact. Winter had always been so damned stoic...

Even years of caution couldn’t stop Tony from reaching out, though he caught himself before actually touching Bucky’s shoulder. The aborted movement drew Bucky’s eye. Smiling wryly, Bucky took hold of Tony’s shoulder, then pulled Tony into his arms.

“Thanks, Tony,” Bucky whispered, and the catch in his voice brought tears to Tony’s eyes.

“I didn’t...”

Bucky laughed, still holding Tony close. “All those years, you kept me grounded. You were my best friend when I didn’t even know I _had_ friends.” He let go enough to lean back and meet Tony’s eyes. “You still are.”

Tony’s arc reactor fritzed, sending a jolt of electricity through his chest, stealing his breath and choking his voice in his throat for a second. He blinked, struggling to find words, and finally managed a cocky half-smile. “Always will be.”

“I know.” Bucky gave Tony’s shoulder a quick squeeze, then stepped back. “I’m going to get Steve and head back to bed.”

“Oh, really?” Tony couldn’t help but ask, leering.

Bucky snorted. “I’m not ready for _sex_ yet, but yeah... I don’t like not having him in arm’s reach. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

There was nothing Tony could really say to that — not without getting smacked in the back of the head by Natasha — so he kept his mouth shut and watched Bucky walk away. Was it really love, this decades-old _whatever_ between two childhood friends? This was a new world, and they were both nothing like who they’d been seventy-plus years ago.

“That’s not jealousy I see, is it?” Natasha asked softly.

Tony shook his head, then actually thought about it and shook his head again. “No. Never really thought of him that way when he was Winter. It’s just...”

Natasha hummed thoughtfully. “He’s not Winter anymore.”

“No. But he’s happy,” Tony said, turning back to pour himself another refill. “That’s all that matters.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART for: Unity Part 1](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691734) by [cassandrasfisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/pseuds/cassandrasfisher)
  * [ART for: Unity Part 3](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691758) by [cassandrasfisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/pseuds/cassandrasfisher)
  * [ART for: Unity Part 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7691752) by [cassandrasfisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassandrasfisher/pseuds/cassandrasfisher)
  * [Art for Unity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030215) by [stuckypocketguide (PocketGuideTyrant)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketGuideTyrant/pseuds/stuckypocketguide)
  * [Art for Unity](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8030215) by [stuckypocketguide (PocketGuideTyrant)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PocketGuideTyrant/pseuds/stuckypocketguide)




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